


Eight of Cups

by spicanao



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major game and ending spoilers, Mutual Pining, Orsterra mythology, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes, To An Extent, Violence, background h'aanit/primrose, most of these are for later, my own headcanons/worldbuilding, tags will be added as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-11-12 03:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18003353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicanao/pseuds/spicanao
Summary: When the eightfold path intersects, the world may have hope. Until then, fate bides its time.For Therion, the world may very well be at its end. Poverty and starvation mark the end of the line for many in his profession, but he'll be damned if he dies for a stupid bangle. And he doubts this dumb medicine man will let him, anyway.





	1. Wayfarer

The storms brewed in her mind’s eye. Darkness would sweep the mortal realm, bringing life and death and everything in between to the zenith of destruction. Perhaps the stars could sense the end of all.

Steorra gazed upon the globe of the universe. To the less learned, those who’d yet to reach the power of Beyond, the sphere appeared rather plain, like a levitating copper ball. But she had traded her sight to See— _truly_ see—long ago, and between her fingertips was the world. Every constellation webbed out like a map before her. She saw where lines intersected, where lines would end.

The designs of fate did not bode well for her.

The plans of Galdera had distorted the stars, twisting and tangling the threads of past, present, and future. She had desired this, at one point—the entire reformation of the world. For these were cruel times, marked by scribes in rune as bloodthirsty and venomous. Wars waged on and on, and Steorra grew tired with the earth. She wished it all away.

But _this_ , this kind of end…

The thought of her own hand in the matter brought a stuttered sigh to her lips. She wondered, then, if the other gods faced the same hesitations as she, the same regrets. Even prideful Winnehild, would she rethink her actions in this nefarious plot?

A star caught her eye. Slipping the lacquered blindfold from her face, she leveled her unseeing eyes to the globe. A single starlet gleamed within the lands of Orsterra, a bright light amidst the darkest clouds. A traveling sorcerer.

Steorra contemplated, and she contemplated for a great while.


	2. A Tale Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _In the Eight of Cups, a man walks away from the eight cups standing in the foreground. The cups are arranged in such a way that it looks like one is missing, a sign that emotional fulfilment and wholeness is lacking. The man has turned his back on these cups with a sense of loss and disappointment and shuffles away into the mountains. A nearby river symbolises his emotions, and the mountains represent the awareness that this will not be an easy journey (though it will be necessary for true long-term happiness). The moon in the night’s sky illuminates the path ahead – the man is leaving in the dead of night hoping to go unnoticed, suggesting that there may be a level of escape or avoidance in this card._ [(x)](https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/minor-arcana/suit-of-cups/eight-of-cups/)

There are nights where the wind whispers into the taverns, rendering a wariness on all its patrons like a warning. The streets are cold and dusty, empty save for the occasional beggar in an alley. Information flows slower than the alcohol from the barrel, a heavy tension in the air that beckons for tight lips and guarded eyes. For Therion, these nights are the worst.

He thumbs through the leaves in his pocket, hands hidden from view beneath his mantle, and swears. With word around town that thieves are flocking to Bolderfall for a Ravus fortune, the locals have kept their coin purses sealed tight and their unattended chests even tighter. That the so-called impenetrable Ravus Manor had already been breached hadn’t yet made its rounds throughout the Cliftlands. It was a flaw on Heathcote’s end, Therion supposes—that now and forever more, they’ll never be short of an attempted robbery on their hands. But the butler had shown that he was capable of more than he let on, so the thief finds he doesn’t feel a shred of sympathy at all. And he shouldn’t. Their connection begins with a transaction, and like so it shall end.

But the problem on hand isn’t the heavy, binding bangle clipped around his wrist. Well, it is, but—

His stomach begins to make a guttural noise, but he punches himself in the gut before it can fully sound out. He frowns down at the bar counter, numbers clouding his mind. He could afford a meal for the night, or he could save it for the inn fare. _Shit,_ either way, he wouldn’t have enough for travel rations or supplies. Not nearly enough to cross the fucking continent.

The tavern door swings ajar, though shutting much more softly than it opened. “What can I get for ya, traveler?” the barkeep asks when a man stands before him, hands on his hips, head swerving around to take in the room. “Miss,” he adds, belatedly, nodding to the woman behind him.

The two are travelers, that’s for sure. Everything about them—from the smiling, unsuspicious look the man wears on his face, to their garbs, entirely distinct from each other. Smile-face dons a green duster vest over a grass-stained shirt, the fabrics too thin to be warm enough in these parts of the Cliftlands this time of year. His partner, a dancer of sorts, looks even more out of place with her flowing silks and satins, threading seams where bells might have been torn off. The woman holds a guarded expression, but not in the way the others of this town do. Rather than tea leaves, Therion suspects she keeps watch for something more sinister.

The woman sidles up to the taller man, leaning on the counter with her elbows to address the barkeep. The gold bangles on her wrists clink in a tinkering sort of sound.

 _Ah._ Therion smiles into his scarf. His newest targets.

“You say there’s a storm headed for these parts?” Smile-face hums, scratching his chin. He turns to his companion. “Don’t reckon we can cross through like usual.”

“Quite a shame,” the woman says, voice soft but sultry. She slips an edge of disappointment into her tone. “We hail from a troupe of actors, you see, meant to regroup with the rest of the caravan in Stillsnow. The journey should have been made by now, but…”

The barkeep eyes Smile-face up and down, as if regarding his appearance—the smudge of dirt on his face, the torn edges of his shirt, the deep scuff marks on his boots. He turns back to the woman. “But?”

The dancer sighs. “I’m afraid our luck runs low. There were more highwaymen on the roads than we could have imagined. Our clothes, all our coin…” She lowers her gaze _just_ right and looks crestfallen. Her companion’s smile turns wry, uncomfortable, and Therion _knows._ She’s a damned good actress if he’s ever seen one, and he might have been fooled if he were younger, more inexperienced in the trade of deceit. But she does her task well, and victory shines in her eyes when the barkeep’s brows dip into sympathetic lines. He calls into the back for someone to bring up a stew and gestures for the two to sit.

“Don’t worry about the bill, Miss,” he insists, “And I’ll put a good word in for you with the innkeeper. We’re understanding folk, here in Bolderfall.”

 _Understanding my ass,_ Therion scoffs, but a moment later waves the barkeep down himself. “I’ll have what they’re having,” he calls out, motioning to the two, and slips a few leaves in his direction. The money doesn’t faze him now with two prospects in town. The woman eyes him curiously when he speaks up, but doesn’t say anything. He finishes his meal long before they do and slips out of the tavern.

His arm dangles at his side with an added weight. Not even a full day has passed since the Ravus butler snapped the fool’s bangle onto his wrist, and yet the limb feels even more uncomfortable, skin raw where it chafes. The fastest route to Noblecourt would be through the Woodlands and Frostlands, and judging by the weeks’ worth of supplies he’d need…

He can’t mess this up.

In and out. Quick and easy. He remembers a time when heists like this— _harder_ than this—were the norm. When he’d picked locks with a snickering voice beside him in the dead of night. Thieving was a game, then, not the daily struggle for survival. At least in those short years. Stealing from bigger, better baddies, _proving_ he could handle it. Before—before _him,_ Therion was no stranger to failed targets and nights with hunger eating away at his bones. Starvation was familiar territory, with simple solutions. It was easy to fall and get back up, back to work.

When he fell—

 _No. Stop._ Therion shuts his eyes and feels a familiar numbing cloud shift over his mind, grounding him to _now_ but making him feel all the more like a stranger looking in. He turns his head to the sky, burning the gray expanse into his vision. Soon, the dancer and her fool will drop by the inn, and with them, their belongings. Even if they are as penniless as they claim, the woman’s earrings or a dagger or two would fetch a fine price. It’ll be enough— _more_ than what he has. He runs over the blueprint of the town in his mind. In and out—simple.

The door behind him swings open. Two soldiers pass him by on their way out of the tavern. They’re a bickering mess, red-faced (though it looks like one more than the other) and jittery. “Word on the street,” he hears one soldier, a stout man, whisper, “is that something’s coming. Something shadier than—”

“Lower your voice!” the other hisses. “There are Eyes everywhere.”

His ears prick in interest. That’s a new one. He’d learned most of the crime groups by name, and anything with Eyes doesn’t ring a bell. Timing his footfalls with each of their heavy steps, Therion plays the role of an unknowing passerby well. With the streets lit by the setting sun, some locals still wander about, making their last rounds before heading inside for the night. The crowd gives a good cover.

The soldier’s voice raises the smidge of a pitch. The thief knows it well—sharp and full of fear. “But you and I both heard before—that the dr…stones...higher ups…” Therion freezes. The soldier’s voice breaks off as he rounds the corner.

He’s sure of it. Dragonstones, the man had said. But the real question; Ravus lackeys or someone else, someone who has more of these heirloom gemstones than they rightfully should?

Shaking himself into motion, Therion turns on his heel in brisk pursuit. The shadows of the alleys engulf his lithe form as he stalks after them, ducking behind the occasional wall when they look over their shoulders. The first soldier opens his mouth. Therion stills his breath and listens.

“You heard the butler, what he was telling that thief! The stones are missing… but—but you _heard_ what Boss said before."

“No,” the second soldier says after a pause, “I didn’t. Pray tell, what did Boss say to _you?_ ”

A shushing sound, then a quieter voice: “He didn’t say anything to _me,_ but I overheard on patrol. The dragonstones, for the ritual, he wanted—"

A high-pitched whistle sounds through the air, then a wet thud. Therion hears a shaky breath and silence. “Run off at the mouth, why don’t you?” the second—now _only_ —soldier mutters. From his position, Therion only sees the length of the man’s shadow, cast by the flickering flame of a lamp post. Daylight is gone.

He leans forward, careful not to make a sound. But the shadow shifts, and when Therion peeks ahead, he finds eyes peering back. Knowing. _Shit. Fucking perfect._

“Little thief,” the soldier calls. “Lucky me! Two birds with one stone. It isn’t too late, you know. The sooner you stop looking into the stones, the better.” Therion doesn’t move, but the soldier crosses his arms, a hand disappearing into the folds of his cape—“Ah, but you may have heard too much.” Something glints in the light. He lashes out.

Therion steps away from the wall before the dagger can claim his eye, but the edge of the blade catches on his cheek. The sting doesn’t bother him; no, he’s had his fair share of violence. But the smirk in the other man’s face says _bad_ things, and on fate’s cruel cue, he finds his vision doubling.

 _They sent him on a fucking suicide mission._ He almost reaches up to touch his wound but thinks better of it. Poison.

He doesn’t have time to be angry, but the self-loathing fills his mind. He should have had the foresight before this all started. It’s been proven—that even though he trusts _himself_ far more than he could ever in another, it’s led him to the same dead end it did years ago.

Out. He needs an out, _now._

Therion falls back on instinct as he pushes up against the wall, hands scrambling for a hold. He scales it with the ease of familiarity, thankful that even if his eyes haven’t fully adjusted to the dark, his body knows the way. Fool’s bangle be damned, he needs to be out of town by sunrise.

His foot twists on itself and he stumbles forward. Swearing, Therion casts a look over his shoulder for the soldier, but darkness remains. No sound, no nearing footsteps. As if the man figured the poison would do his job for him.

His hand trembles as he pushes himself to his feet once more. He makes his way to the inn by rooftop, slowly but surely. Each step feels heavier than the last. The plan stays the same: make some quick cash and say goodbye to this dusty old town.

He catches sight of the dancer down below. She dons a hooded brown cloak, likely borrowed from the innkeeper’s own wardrobe. Her partner stumbles along beside her, not nearly lucky enough with his own reaping. He rubs his arms against the chill. They say a few words to the innkeeper behind them, bowing their heads when the middle-aged woman waves them off cheerily and calls out, “I’ll see you two later this evenin’ then!”

On the roof, Therion slips his fingers between the crevice of a window on the second floor. The partition widens seamlessly, not a single creak or crack to be heard.  He slithers inside legs first, pulling the window back down behind him, but careful not to shut it. His hands rustle under his mantle, digging through hidden pockets in his sleeve. After a moment, he pulls free one of his best lockpicking tools.

It’s a guessing game of doors, then. He creeps along the small corridor, vision spinning, and forces all his energy into listening. Behind one door, a man coughs. Beyond another, the distinct sound of frenzied huffing—two people, sighs and moans and shuffling fabric. He rolls his eyes and continues along, one hand propped against the wall for support. At last, he finds himself before the last room in the hall. Silence within.

Therion grits his teeth and hovers in front of the door, squinting with effort. The poison runs freely through his blood, making him sway. To any passerby leaving their room, he just looks like a drunkard fumbling for his keys. He twists his wrist, and with a satisfying click, the doorknob gives way.

The room is small, not quite square-shaped, and a little something like the shoddy lodgings he’d stayed in as a child. There’s a bed, sheets untouched, and a simple bedroll at the foot of the bed. The man’s, Therion realizes. He stumbles inside and shuts the door behind him with a soft click. A small window allows a stream of moonlight into the room, but aside from this, everything is dark. Spotting a nightstand, he rummages through the drawers. A concoction or two, but otherwise—nothing. He pockets them anyway.

A small bundle on the bed catches his eye. He runs his fingers over it—some kind of animal skin—before unraveling the wrapping. His breath hitches. _Gotcha._ A ruby necklace, gold earrings, a few silver bangles—he can pawn them off _easy._

“Find what you need?”

The floorboard creaks, and before Therion can fully turn around, a gleaming blade, bright beneath the moonlight, flicks within the darkness, arching in a semicircle an inch before his face. He staggers back with a practiced dodge, fingers already latched to the hilt of his own dagger as he swings his arm upward. Their blades twang, sharp and vibrating.

The dancer poises a second dagger for his throat. Her wrist—tiny, smaller than his could ever be, and scarily flexible—whips out toward him and Therion raises his other arm, elbow striking out the moment she sweeps a long leg under him and knocks him onto his ass. A dull pain shakes his sight as his head thumps against the wall. Not a second later, he opens his eyes to a dagger against his jugular.

“Alfyn,” she calls out, body angled away, but her narrowed eyes never leave his form.

The man—Alfyn—doesn’t wear a smile on his face now. He steps into the room, lowering his axe.

And shuts the door behind him.

The part of Therion’s brain unvexed by a shroud of nausea and dizziness pricks in confusion. Weren’t they going to call guards—the innkeeper— _someone?_ Then alarm. They’re going to kill him. His gaze shoots to the floor, at the dagger just out of reach. The dancer, however, kicks it to the side before he can even dream of moving.

It all happens very suddenly. One moment, he’s seeing double, then the next, everything is melting, pulsing, searing white. The wound on his cheek burns. _Shit,_ he thinks belatedly, realizing that one way or another, he’s going to die. He takes a good look at the sight before him. Did he really survive back then only to get gutted by a _dancer?_

“Prim,” Alfyn starts, shuffling forward, brows scrunched together. “Hold up a minute—”

Therion can’t help it. He lurches forward, spewing poison from his lips in what is unmistakably undigested stew. The dancer flinches back in disgust, hissing something. But Therion doesn’t hear, doesn’t resist when warm hands press against his neck and forehead and cheek, doesn’t realize his eyes are closed until he tries to blink.

“Alfyn, he tried to rob us,” the dancer—Prim—reasons. Her voice is background noise in his brain.

The warm hands leave him for a moment only to return, spreading something cool against his cheek. “Well, I reckon he’s a patient now.” The stinging cold of a glass bottle presses against Therion’s dry lips. “You’re in good hands now, buddy. I’ve gotcha.”

Outside, the storm settles into the town, and a drizzle of rain raps against the window, little tinny sounds against rusty gutters. Therion fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! If you weren't scared off by the "first" very short prologue chapter, welcome! This is an entirely indulgent project of sorts, one I'm really excited for. I bought Octopath like two weeks ago and I've been captivated by its beautiful graphics and story ever since--especially the world of Orsterra and its lore. What better way to get it out of my system than weave it all together with my favorite edgelord thief and stringbean apothecary :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can also find me @chillshroom on tumblr


	3. Lie to a liar, for lies are his coin

When Therion wakes, it is to the grating sound of crunching leaves and clinking cups. He finds a green jacket spread smoothly over the expanse of his body, and not too far off, a satchel with bottles and herbs spilling halfway out. At the end of the trail of leaves, he finds the tall scruffy man (Alfyn, was it?), back turned to him, toiling with a mortar and pestle. _So he’s an apothecary._

Therion looks down and peels himself from the bedroll. His hand rises to prod at his cheek, where he finds a hardened patch of moss covering where the previous night’s cut was. Sweat and grime make his shirt cling to his skin in a restricting way. His mantle is folded neatly beside him, lain carefully on the ground. He’s been stripped completely of his weapons.

“Sleeping beauty awakes at last,” a sultry voice murmurs sleepily, startling him. Therion looks up into the bored face of the dancer woman sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, chin propped against her palm. She gives him a thin smile in greeting.

At her announcement, the tall man at the desk drops his pestle and turns to them both in surprise. “Hey, you’re up!” he beams. Therion flinches at the sound, loud and bubbly. Seeing this, the man smiles in apology, moving toward him but stopping short when Therion inches backwards. “Right. You’ve probably got a killer headache right about now. Here,” he rifles through his satchel, procuring a small bottle, “That’ll do ‘er.”

Therion stares ahead with a blank expression, unmoving. The hand remains outstretched. He expects the apothecary to get the picture—that there’s no way in all the hells that he’s stupid enough to drink some ambiguous potion, especially not from a _stranger_ —but the man smiles with insistence. He scowls in return. “How do I know you’re not just poisoning me?”

“Well, shucks.” Alfyn runs his hands through the unkempt hair on the nape of his neck. “You’re here now, ain’t ya?”

It’s true. His entire body feels like shit, aching and weak, but it’s a stark relief from the cloudy haze he was in before, when it seemed he’d disconnected from everything. Now that he can actually feel the thoughts in his head, he’s in the clear—of the poison at least. But the rest of this—the fact that he’s still _sitting_ here, breathing and unscathed, and not behind the bars of Bolderfall’s gaol—there’s nothing about this that makes sense.

Alfyn kneels down, then, to his height. Therion suspects it’s a poor attempt at appearing disarming. Really, the man’s got a full head over him, and even sitting, the thief can see how much bigger his muscles are. In that respect, the apothecary’s got an attractive look about him, in a village idiot sort of way. Some kind of big oaf whose best point is his charming smile, a smile nurtured for many years. Alfyn continues to hold his hand out, offering. “It’s harmless, I swear, I‘m just tryin’ to help you.”

“You’re lucky Alfyn is such a gentleman,” he hears from the bed. “Where I come from, people don’t take kindly to strangers rifling through their belongings.”

“Shucks, Primrose, I’m just doin’ what’s right,” the apothecary laughs.

Therion frowns at the bottle before taking it. He pops the cork out before taking an experimental sniff. Mint and something sour. Meeting Alfyn’s eyes, he takes a slow swig.

At first, he feels nothing, but the relief in his sinuses a moment later brings a sigh to his lips. Therion slumps back against the bed frame, chin tucked against his body. He wishes he still had his poncho on, if only to hide within its folds. Alfyn takes the bottle back with a victorious grin.

“So!” he starts, voice still too loud, “Where’re my manners—I’m Alfyn, Alfyn Greengrass, traveling apothecary from Clearbrook!” A quaint town, unremarkable, Therion notes, and not that far from Bolderfall. “And this lovely lady is—”

“Primrose,” the woman finishes. “Just Primrose.”

Huh. There’s something hidden there. Therion meets their expecting stares and rolls his eyes. “Therion. Just Therion,” he echoes.

“Nice to meetcha, Therion!” Again, all smiles. It isn’t one of those forced ones, either, because it reaches his eyes and gives them a clear shine, an honest shade of deep browns and warmth that Therion’s never seen around the Cliftlands, where all is arid and dead. Alfyn’s got the eyes of a child raised under the sun, not the chill of wind. He’s as tall as a bean stalk, and it’s not too far off to assume he’d grown up with them, too, never going hungry in a land of fertile earth. Therion catches himself staring and turns away.

Alfyn doesn’t notice. He carries on without missing a beat. “Now, I’d hate to interrogate a patient…” Something akin to embarrassment reaches his voice. He looks over Therion’s shoulder at Primrose. “…but we really haven’t got a choice here. Why were you in our room?”

The thief scoffs. “Wasn’t that obvious?”

“Quite obvious indeed.” Therion turns sharply to Primrose, whose gaze remains trained on his wrist. Swearing under his breath, he tucks the limb behind his back, but it’s too late—she’s seen. He glares. “Now, sir, that’s hardly an attractive look!” Primrose scolds. She appears almost amused.

Alfyn looks between the two in confusion. “Somethin’ I missed?”

“The fool’s bangle around his wrist,” she says, but the man looks just as confused as he did before. “I’ve never seen it with my own eyes, but I’d know one at a glance. The man’s a thief, and a bad one at that, to get caught.”

Therion grits his teeth and turns away, fixing his stare onto the window and the heavy driblets of rain outside. What point is there in denying it anyway? He bears his shame with a bitter taste, like foul, corroding iron, hot on his tongue. It had been stupid of him to run after rumors without thinking. He’s earned the bangle, for letting his guard down and for blindly trusting information. _The moment you trusted a word I said,_ he remembers, words from long ago, spoken from a face he considered a friend, _you lost, little tea leaf._

His breath stutters. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Take them away—take _all_ the memories.

Primrose’s voice floats above him. “It’s a nasty badge to wear—a bit cruel, in my opinion. The longer it’s on, the more it hurts.” He feels eyes on the back of his head—and the front, too. Silence cascades across the room in a slow, awkward prowl. If he wants, Therion can slice the tension with the dull edge of his blade, especially with how thick and in-your-face it is.

“Hey.” Soft words make his ears prick, deafening in the quiet. “Hey, Therion,” Alfyn says, more firmly, “Would you let me have a look at your hand?”

He narrows his eyes, immediately putting distance between them. “What’re you aiming at? I’m not some charity case you can tack on to your ego,” Therion spits. “Why haven’t you turned me over to the guards?”

Alfyn blinks in alarm. “Whoa, slow down there, buddy!” Primrose slips off the bed as the apothecary throws his hands up. “Look, honest to gods, I just want to help you out. You gave us quite a scare yesterday, passin’ out and all. Had my work cut out for me gettin’ that poison outta you.” He pauses, voice softer now. “They really did a number on you, whoever they were.”

Therion’s free hand reaches for the wound on his face. Right. The poison—the soldier. A sickening weight curls in his gut. He remembers that he shouldn’t be here at all; he should’ve died that night, and it’s some merciful (or cruel) act of the gods that he isn’t ten feet under, tossed into a ditch with the sorry soul from before.

“Can I see your hand?” Alfyn asks again.

After a moment, Therion pulls his arm from behind his back and holds out his hand, palm upward. The thick bangle hangs tightly at the flexible point of his wrist, pushing down on the admittedly weak bone of his palm. He winces. Since he’d gotten the damned thing yesterday, he’d avoided raising his arm higher than necessary, leaving it to hang limply at his side. The fool’s bangle is the end of the road for thieves stupid enough to get caught. It’s hard to work around a metal deposit on your arm, after all.

And, as much as he loathes to admit, he’s always been small for his age. His shoulder’s been tingling for some time now.

He thinks back on where it had gone wrong. “You’ve no room for complaint, for this is the very thing you know best,” Heathcote, shit-eating smirk on his face, had told him when he proposed the transaction. “Return the dragonstones to their rightful owner, the Lady Ravus, and buy your freedom. Surely, a master thief such as yourself will have no issues with a simple task like this.”

Simple. Right.

Alfyn traces a delicate line around his wrist, following the edge of the band. Therion shudders at his touch, the contact of another so foreign it sends warning signals to his brain. _Get away,_ it says, _too close, too risky._ But he holds his breath and counts back from ten.

There’s hardly any space to twist the bangle around. Alfyn frowns. “That’s on awfully tight. Is there any way to break it open?”

Primrose answers for him, examining her fingernails. “They’re made practically unbreakable, meant to ensnare rogues with sticky fingers. Only the person who put it on him has the key to open it.”

“There are ways,” Therion supplies, tone flippant, revealing nothing of the erratic beat of his heart. “With leaves.” The other two exchange a look. “A lot of them. Too many for it to be worth it.”

The dancer nods, seemingly to herself, as if realizing something. “Hence, your little visit to us last night.”

 _Tell all the truth but tell it slant_. Therion rolls with it. “Money’s money,” he says simply. “Needed to get out of town as soon as possible.”

The two travelers exchange meaningful glances once more. Primrose begins to gather her belongings together, shrugging on a cloak and fixing her daggers onto hidden holsters around her leg and hip. He eyes the strategic placements appreciatively—each within a second’s grasp, easy to disguise while dancing. She knows her trade well.

When everything is secured where it should be, she meets his eye. “You’re being pursued. Where were you going?”

The question comes as a surprise. Therion hesitates. He doesn’t even have the answer himself. Continuing the quest sounds far more dangerous than it’s worth. Eyes on every corner, whatever that had meant. He’d almost died that night—in fact, that soldier was so sure he’d die that he hadn’t even pursued him farther.

Therion freezes, a thought tickling his mind.

 _The man was so sure he’d die._ That he’s dead.

That… could work in his favor. Because, if they think he’s dead, no longer a threat, _two birds killed with one stone,_ as he’d said _—_

He can still fix this.

“Noblecourt,” Therion says. He can do this. He’ll get the damn bangle off one way or another. He just has to be smart—smart enough to snatch the dragonstones when they least expect him _and_ pay a certain soldier his just desserts. “I have business in Noblecourt.”

Primrose’s expression falters. A distant look clouds her dark eyes, then resolve. If Alfyn notices the shift in her demeanor, he says nothing. Rather, he starts packing his own possessions, cramming all his tinctures back into that ratty old satchel with a jolly whistle on his lips.

“I have not asked what crimes you’ve committed to earn that bracelet, or what you’ve done to earn a target on your back, and I don’t plan to.” Her gaze pins him down. “But I know men, and I know them well. Your eyes are like mine. I’ll throw you an offer.”

He says nothing, listening. On the floor, Alfyn looks like he’s smiling to himself, like he knows something.

“A boon for a boon. You see, we might both get something good out of this chance meeting. Fortunate as Alfyn and I have been so far in our journey—” She pauses and frowns in thought. “—we _are_ lacking in coin. Something someone of your… _profession…_ might be able to help us with.”

To this, Alfyn’s head shoots up. “Now, hold on a minute, Prim—”

Therion almost laughs. “What about medicine man over there—doesn’t he sell his wares and shit?”

“He’s altruistic at heart. He doesn’t charge for his services.”

A noble cause. A naïve one. Something, Therion is sure, will break that out of him, and he isn’t sure he wants to be there when it does. “And what do I get out of this?”

She smiles, and this time, Therion feels a chill in his bones. “Protection in numbers, until we reach our destinations. Supplies.” She motions to Alfyn. “Medical care when needed. Your answer, master thief?”

He pretends to mull over it in his mind. But between Primrose’s expectant stare and Alfyn’s hopeful glance, he knows his answer is foreseen.

“Deal.”

Primrose turns on her heel with the grace of her profession. Her brown hair sways behind her. “Good,” she says, almost dismissive. “We leave now.”

Alfyn pushes himself to his feet and offers Therion an arm, but the thief brushes it aside with a grumble. The apothecary only laughs in return. The thief shrugs on his mantle and startles when the other man reaches for him, his stolen dagger in hand, with the blade towards his own palm and the hilt to Therion. He eyes him carefully before taking it and sliding it back into his belt. Either Alfyn’s incredibly stupid, or—no, he’s just stupid.

“Hey, Therion,” the apothecary says, voice soft as if he doesn’t want Primrose to hear.

“What do you want.” He doesn’t pose it as a question, and instead answers it like a sigh.

“You know, I talked it over with Prim while you were under last night, and we both kinda agreed it’d be great to have another person with us! Safety in numbers, and all that,” Alfyn laughs.

Therion gives him a bored look. “Do you have a point here?”

“Yeah.” His expression sobers, shifting into seriousness. “’Bout what she said—you usin’ your skills for us. You don’t have to. We’d take you in regardless.”

A weightless feeling stirs in Therion’s chest. It’s like that sensation of falling in his nightmares, suffocating and heavy, but different. _Stupid,_ he thinks, _this idiot’s dumb as all hells._ And he tells him so.

The apothecary winces in feigned offense. “You can be pretty mean when you want to, huh,” he chuckles.

“You’d better learn to count your promises before you pay them out, medicine man. The world isn’t sunshine and flowers like you think.”

Alfyn shrugs, throwing his arms above his head to link behind his neck, before heading towards the doorway where Primrose leans, sharpening her daggers with a whetstone. “But it _can_ be, Therion. And I’ll do my damnedest to make it that way.” And as he walks away whistling an upbeat tune, Therion can’t help but imagine how easy it would be—how easily he could sink his dagger, up to the hilt, into Alfyn’s back and show him just how sunny the light at the end of the tunnel is. But he doesn’t. He’s left staring at his broad back until, finally, Therion follows the travelers out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfyn, you tall bean, stop being nice you're going to intimidate the small thief
> 
> Thanks for reading! Find me @chillshroom on tumblr


	4. Rule Number One

“Stop talking.”

The words come out as a hiss between gritted teeth. Therion pulls his scarf even tighter around his neck, foolishly believing it will block the boisterous sound of Alfyn’s voice from his ears. His migraine still lingers, although faint, in the back of his mind. A part of him regrets accepting the offer to travel together so easily. But then the apothecary stops them for a break and insists on poulticing Therion’s cheek wound again, and Therion begrudgingly admits that they’re useful enough to keep around. For now.

Even so, the damn medicine man won’t _stop talking._

“Hm,” Primrose hums, flanking his left side. Her pace is steady, each step quiet as she tilts her head towards Alfyn, who stands on Therion’s right. “I told you he wouldn’t stay quiet for long, Alfyn.”

Therion scowls and slows down to fall behind the party, but the two travelers slide into line with him. He _hates_ it—having people on his sides, feeling so _exposed._ But they insist on it; “Rule number one,” Primrose had explained to Alfyn, though her voice betrayed humor, “Never turn your back on a thief.”

So sandwich him in the middle.

It might have been bearable if they were walking in silence, but, it turns out, a dancer and an apothecary have more in common than he’d known. Primrose tells them of the golden sands of the Sunlands and the various plants that grow in the desert. She brings stories of drama and wild bandits striking the houses of the rich in the dead of night, speaking with her eyes trained on Therion as if waiting for him to complain. And while, for the first leg of the journey down the crumbling slopes of Bolderfall, he’d kept a tight lock on his words, wary of every shift of sand beneath his feet, he’s at the limits of his sanity.

Primrose can’t be more wrong. Rule number one is _don’t die._

Even the common merchant knows not to draw unwanted attention, especially at the risk of their wares. Predators are always on the hunt, after all, both beasts _and_ humans. And with the way Alfyn’s laugh seems to bounce off the cliff walls, they are quite literally walking targets. Lumps of meat for the taking—or robbing. And, as tall and fit as the apothecary is, Therion doubts he’d be any use in a fight. Given the choice, he bets Alfyn would try to befriend the enemy.

On cue, the apothecary beams down at him. “What do you think, Therion?”

The conversation had shifted somewhere along the line without him noticing. Therion makes a noncommittal grunt, eyes straight ahead. The same strategy has worked before, for the most part. If he pretends not to hear, they leave him alone eventually.

“I don’t think he heard you, Alfyn,” Primrose supplies. Snickers, in fact, when he shoots her a scathing glower. The cold fury he’d seen that night in the inn is dulled, restrained back into something more calculating. She smiles, and while it never reaches her eyes, he—oddly enough—doesn’t feel threatened by it.

“About the weather,” Alfyn clarifies. He stretches his arms above his head, squinting at the sky. The thief almost rolls his eyes; so there _are_ people who find conversation about the _weather_ enthralling, and of all people, he’s landed himself right into their group. “I mean, it sure looks like it’s going to rain again.”

“Hn,” is all he grunts in response. Therion glances upward. Sure enough, the sky is consumed by thick layers of cloud, giving the cliffs an even duller look than usual. They’d begun the trek downwards late, later than he would have preferred. If they continue at this pace, the rain will catch them. He glances to the jagged ridges of their path before forcing his eyes forward again. He clears his throat, quickening his pace to brush past the apothecary. “We need to hurry.”

Alfyn only blinks at him, lengthening his stride to turn his full attention onto the thief. He looks excited that he’s spoken at all. “What’s the rush?” he asks, tilting his head.

Not too far ahead, Primrose comes to a full stop. Something wet hits Therion on the nose and he emits a soft hiss of _shit,_ automatically shifting as far away from the ledge as possible. “ _That_ is the rush,” he grumbles. He sizes up their party; Alfyn, in his apothecary’s jacket and thin-looking shirt, Primrose, who even with a nice cloak is still exposed to the weather, and his own lack of a hood or change of clothes. They’re the most ill-prepared group of travelers he’s ever imagined.

The specks of water do little more than irritate his eyes, at first. But then a rumble tears through the skies and specks of water become _fat blobs_ of water and _yes,_ he realizes—everything is downhill from here.

_Just my luck._

“Gods,” Alfyn shouts through the loudness, holding his hands over his eyes like a visor, “it’s really picking up!”

Ahead, Primrose holds out a palm to catch the falling drops. Her eyes fill with wonder as she turns to Therion. “Is it common here, rain?”

“Common enough.” Therion remains where he is. He sorts through their options—there isn’t much cover, but some parts of their path run deeper into the rocks, creating an enclave of sorts, albeit narrow. The only other option is to brave the rain and continue with the descent. Something—he stares down at his boots, soles scuffed and worn; slippery. Something that doesn’t sound fun at all.

“It doesn’t rain often in the Sunlands,” continues the dancer, finally stepping towards Therion. He schools his expression into indifference, careful not to show his discomfort. “Are we close to flat ground yet?” He shrugs. It’s not like he’s been this far down recently, since—since _then._

“Looks like it,” Alfyn says. He points into the distance, flashing them both a grin. “Startin’ to see more greens again!”

Therion follows the direction of his finger. Sure enough, clusters of weeds peek out between the rocks, twitching every time a drop of rain hits. They appear in bigger groupings the farther he looks. “So, you’re saying we’re almost out of here?”

The apothecary nods. “Those weeds only grow in richer soils. Can’t be that far off now. We should push on.” He treks on past the two without batting an eye as the downpour strengthens. When he notices they aren’t following, he looks back over his shoulder. “C’mon!”

“Are you sure—” Therion starts, still not moving, “Are you sure we shouldn’t just set up camp here?”

Primrose gives him a long look before setting off after the other man. “He knows his plants well,” she calls back in that self-assured tone of hers. He supposes the message is meant to sound reassuring, but it still casts a veil of doubt over him. Eventually, the other two reach the bend of the road and stop, turning back to him. He sighs and follows.

Alfyn must be right, because the final leg of the descent is a steep slope. Of course, the Cliftlands don’t miraculously smooth down into flat ground. But it’s the small things—that when he accidentally looks over the edge, it doesn’t seem that far of a drop anymore.

He feels… normal, to an extent.

“Ah!”

Good hand flying to his side, Therion jumps at the exclamation, reaching for his dagger. The apothecary’s stopped moving, hands cupping his ears. Therion releases the handle when he realizes it’s just Alfyn. The man looks back, voice lilting in apology. “Sorry—my ear just popped! I think it’s finally unclogged.”

“Now that you mention it,” Primrose chimes in, “It _does_ feel easier to breathe, too.”

He stares, feeling dumb. “What are you talking about?”

“Prim an’ I aren’t used to bein’ so high up,” Alfyn explains. “It’s kinda nice hearing again.” He pats his ears, Primrose following suit, and all the more, Therion finds himself on the outside looking in, never truly understanding.

Flicking the water from his hands, Alfyn starts the tune to another whistle. The song is unfamiliar, but the thief can’t say he entirely dislikes it, even if Alfyn’s whistle peaks shakily into high notes at times. It’s not often he hears music where he stays—wherever that may be. When he was younger, the only songs he’d heard were those of the women in the shanty towns as they worked. The men were never there, trying their luck in neighboring settlements or flocking to the next boomtown, but the women had talked to him a lot. Given him odd jobs, too, after his mother passed.

The walk continues with the sounds of their feet chipping away at the rocks with every step—occasionally, too, Alfyn starts to whistle again, repeating one particular melody and then finishing the rest of the song—the too high parts—in the low timbres of his voice. When Therion feels the nerves bubble in his chest, he focuses on that out-of-tune quality of the man’s voice. Points out every flaw he hears. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

More often than he can count, he feels eyes scrutinizing his every movement. And every time he vaguely turns towards her, Primrose shifts her attention away. She tries to be subtle, but Therion’s spent years watching, waiting, doing the very thing she’s been doing, and he knows when to slip a mask on and hide.

Primrose. Still, he doesn’t understand how or why he’s been offered this invitation. But the woman seems to _think_ she knows what she’s doing—even if she’s fucking crazy for not turning him over the moment he passed out. But Therion suspects this arrangement wasn’t her idea at all. It must be the medicine man’s, because between the two, he _looks_ like the soft one, the too-trusting, heart on his sleeve type of guy. From what Therion’s seen, at least. The dancer is more careful.

He eyes the taller man’s back, where the hint of an axe peeks out through the slit of his apothecary’s garb. _Maybe I’m wrong._ He slows his pace a fraction, subtle enough that the other two don’t notice. Maybe _he’s_ been too careless, and neither of his newfound companions are soft at all—they’re sharp. Dangerous.

But they’re far past Bolderfall now, and if they _were_ going to try something, he’d be dead on the side of the road already. He’s survived this long. Plus, he reasons, it’ll be over soon enough. The moment Therion finds an opening, he’ll be long out of their sight before they notice. Likely, he’ll make his exit in the cover of night. Slip some trinkets into his pocket and vanish. Make like a thief, and all that.

“So how exactly did’ya get that bangle, Therion?” He moves his eyes from Alfyn’s back to his face as the man breaks his record for silence. “If you don’t mind me askin’ that is.”

“I mind.” Therion shoulders past the group once more. The path before them finally feels level again, so he doesn’t have to dig the heel of his boots into the ground with each step. The rain no longer seeps into his mantle but instead seems to run off the ends, the cloth too soaked to absorb any more water. He runs his fingers through his hair, wincing as it catches on tangled knots, and tucks a strand behind his ear.

“That’s alright, then,” Alfyn says, and doesn’t press the subject any further. But when Therion looks back as subtly as he can, he finds the apothecary staring after him in thought—over his head at his hair, and then when realizes Therion’s staring back, at his face. Therion jerks back to face forward and feels two sets of eyes watch him. Awkwardly, he nods back towards them.

“It’s going to be dark soon,” he mutters, and they exchange a look, but nonetheless hurry along.

They clamber over a creaky bridge suspended by rope and willpower. Each time Alfyn takes a step, the wooden planks under them groan even more loudly, and the bridge swings a little. Primrose practically glides to the other side with the grace of a cat. While Therion isn’t as nimble as the dancer, he definitely has a better time crossing than the apothecary.

“Guys,” Alfyn calls, clinging onto the rope behind them, “You’re _sure_ this thing won’t snap on me?”

Primrose stifles a chuckle with the back of her hand. Therion rolls his eyes, nonplussed. “People drag mules over the damn thing.”

It’s hardly meant to sound reassuring at all, but Alfyn swallows hard before nodding. He progresses, step by step, until he finally reaches them on the other side. As soon as his feet touch the solid surface of the cliff, he dashes past them.

“Alfyn,” Primrose laughs, briskly following behind, “You were so _brave.”_ Her tone shines through with mirth, but her words sound genuine. She pats him on the shoulder, and Alfyn practically melts into the touch.

The apothecary cheers up not long after, when the rain lets up somewhat and they can see the road ahead more clearly. He points out different plants, leaning over to pluck a couple for his satchel. “I didn’t know these grew here,” he mumbles, probably to himself, but Therion’s close enough to hear. “Zeph’ll want to hear ‘bout this.”

He frowns; are they meeting with more people? “Zeph?”

Alfyn turns to him, surprised that he’s spoken. “Oh, he’s a good friend, like a brother to me. We grew up together ‘round Clearbrook.”

Therion gets the sense that this Zeph person is even more important than he lets on. He regrets asking, especially when the apothecary dives into childhood tales, stories of swimming in the river and nearly drowning, of sneaking off towards the cave of Rhiyo and getting their ears yanked afterwards. All the while, a nostalgic expression lights up Alfyn’s face.

 _So those are his memories._ The kind that brings a smile when they slip into your thoughts. It’s a sentiment Therion doesn’t understand.

He averts his eyes and instead takes in his surroundings. The scenery has shifted from winding, twisting ledges to a wider path. His feet ache and, not surprisingly, the wrist with the bangle feels sore, like it’s being dragged down. He never comments on it, though, and they carry on.

At times, he slips into nostalgia before wrenching himself away from thoughts he should never have again. Having a group around, it’s easier to fall into that false sense of security—of being safer in numbers, of having less to worry about. But these are strangers who can turn on him any moment, and while he's confident that he can slip away if push comes to shove, it's terrifying just how easily he's fallen into their rhythm. It’s deceiving. It’s why those early days with _Darius_ had been thrilling, with the frigid cold of the air, the danger on the streets, and the terror of starvation in Therion’s veins transformed into a tailwind of sorts, pushing him along for the ride. Blindly.

But Therion refuses to forget how easy it is to be betrayed; to die. Not with the rocky cliffs towering above and below. Not with memories of his own waiting in the shadows of his mind, threatening to inch forward. And especially not when the gods send him a reminder every so often, in case.

Therion begins to slow down as they approach a fork in the road. He recognizes it by description, in the words of drunk tavern-goers with loose lips: _the place gives me nightmares e'ry time I pass through it,_ a merchant had said.  _Lords and nobles—lazy arses, you mean! They still 'aven't set up half the railings 'round the cliffs._

Near the end of the road, where a familiarly misshapen sign marks the direction to the nearest town, they find a shoe first. And not much further, a body.

Primrose sucks in a breath. “Is that…?”

The apothecary drops all he’s holding and rushes forward. “Hey! You alright over there?” When he receives no answer, he shifts from a fast stride to a run. “I’m comin’ over, alright?”

Therion stands back as Alfyn rushes to the mound of brown-stained clothing. He shifts his scarf over his face to smother the stench of death, the odor of a body that’s been there for days, if not weeks. Primrose hovers beside him, watching with concerned but knowing eyes as the apothecary carefully turns the body over. Looks down. Up. Shakes his head.

But Therion had known they were dead the moment he’d seen, and maybe before then, too.

“Looks like a fall,” Alfyn says, and for once he sounds grim. The rain picks up again, but nobody curses at it or wonders at its timing. “We should… the very least we could do is bury him.”

Without a proper shovel, the work is challenging, if not impossible, and takes up most of the daylight. Halfway through, Primrose suggests they cover the body with stones instead, and so they gather as many rocks as they can, Therion finding himself earnestly helping. The dancer arranges the stones as if she’s done this before.

The end result is a sloppy mountain of rubble—but still a grave.

Alfyn continues to pile rocks around it, long after Therion and Primrose have stopped. The sky dims as another rumble shakes the earth. “Let’s go,” Therion says at last, and he turns without waiting for the other two. Eventually, he hears Primrose whisper words to Alfyn, and then a pair of feet shuffling behind him. Theirs is a silence too heavy to rupture. With Alfyn, it’s the sound of muted mourning, of swallowed breaths. The kind of quiet where you know someone is hiding something. And when he looks back, catches sight of streaks of rain (or tears) running down Alfyn’s chin, his mouth pressed into a thin, resolute line, Therion almost feels ashamed for witnessing.

Something in the way the apothecary looks frustrated at himself, guilty, urges the thief to speak. “It’s normal around here,” he tells him.

It’s a long while before Alfyn says anything, his voice full of emotion. Disappointment or anger. “Well, damn, Therion, it really shouldn’t be.”

Therion keeps his mouth shut the rest of the way, confused _—_ because why would anyone care for someone they don't even know? But he wonders, had things turned out differently, if someone would’ve done the same for him. Cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *squints at the slow burn tag* oh right
> 
> I've been thinking about that sidequest, 'A Corpse With No Name,' and how you had two ways to complete it: guiding the wife or finding the journal. Makes me think about all the other unidentified corpses--especially in dangerous terrain like the Cliftlands and the Sunlands. Or the Frostlands, where snow would pretty much hide evidence unless animals got to it.
> 
> Thank you for reading! As usual, you can also find me @chillshroom on tumblr :)


	5. Belong

When dusty gravel disappears at last, replaced instead with the thick crunch of dead leaves under their feet, Therion barely stifles a sigh of relief. The cliffs of Bolderfall are long out of sight, hidden away by wispy clouds. It’s like a weight lifts from his shoulders.

He can’t remember the last time he’d left the Cliftlands. There were times, as a child, he’d ventured close enough to Quarrycrest to visit his father, but the mining town was still well within the region. The ground is different here. He looks up, imprinting the image of deep greens and dark soils into his mind’s eye. The foliage completely shrouds the skyline from view. Once they’d passed the rocky terrain, the rain had slowed to a drizzle and finally to a stop. The Woodlands are a different land altogether.

Stretching his arms high above his head, Alfyn gives a wide-mouthed yawn, but his face is still overcast with gloom. “Mind if we stop for a bit? I saw a river not far back. We should set up camp before it gets too dark an’ all.”

They look to Primrose, who already has shrugged off her drenched cloak. Nodding, Alfyn pulls a waterskin from his satchel and sets off towards the sound of water. “Be right back!” he shouts over his shoulder, shaking the empty container.

Primrose stalks around the clearing, searching, before finally unrolling a cloth and taking a seat on the forest floor. Therion hangs above her, unsure of what to do.

She glances up at him as she rubs the sores out of her legs. “Yes?”

He looks away. “Nothing.” Then, motioning in the general direction of the river, “Should he be alone?”

To this, the dancer hesitates, lips parting to speak before she thinks back on it and shakes her head instead. “He’s just getting water. Alfyn’s a lot stronger than he lets on.”

The question he really wants answered is left to stew in his mind. Discomfort roils in his stomach as he considers how to phrase it, and out of awkwardness, it takes him a painful silence before he can attach the words in his head to his voice. “Isn’t…” His voice breaks off, crackly from disuse.

Her eyes flick up to meet his, not quite challenging, but inquisitive all the same. Pressing. Like she dares him to bring up the unasked question hovering in the air—the _isn’t this all ridiculous,_ and _why does he care anyway?_ But when Therion refuses to say anything further, she just stretches herself out, rolling the kinks in her shoulders and neck. “What exactly are you trying to ask, Therion?”

He shuts up after that, unwilling to admit his curiosity or indicate just how much Alfyn’s somber mood perplexes him. Instead, he passes his time with busywork, picking up fodder for kindling, piling the driest twigs and leaves near Primrose and her blankets. This will mark the end of their first day together, he realizes. The first steps of his journey.

 _Gods,_ they’d only made it _out_ of Bolderfall in a day’s worth of walking. At this rate, he’d be stuck with this damn bangle for longer than he’d initially thought— _too_ long. He doesn’t realize he’s been staring at his wrist too openly to be discreet until Primrose hums and stares at it with him. Embarrassed, he shoves his arm back into the folds of his rain-soaked mantle, cringing at the heavy way it clings to his skin.

“Does it…?” she starts, but catches herself and retreats from the question. _Does it hurt,_ Therion thinks she means to ask, but she never finishes the sentence and he owes her no answers.

When the dancer has her fill of watching him, she rises to gather supplies, too, assembling larger logs into interlocked stacks. Alfyn returns to them when most of the work is done. His eyes aren’t red-rimmed like Therion thought they would be, but the man still looks out of sorts.

“Kinda hard to tell now that we’re so deep in the trees, but the sun’s down now. We’ve got rations enough to last us ‘til the next town, but,” he tells them, “’s not much. I can try some huntin’ and see what I can get.”

Therion observes the apothecary, from the muscles his beige shirt poorly hides to the handle of the man’s axe, clearly worn from use. He doesn’t look as strong as a sellsword, sure, but he’s probably used to swinging that weapon around. Maybe chopping wood. Maybe other things. Didn’t apothecaries do amputations?

His thoughts flicker to the bangle on his wrist but immediately withdraw from the idea.

Therion only looks away when Alfyn stares back, scowling to himself at being caught. He covers his mistake with a question instead. “You actually know how to hunt?” he asks. When the tone of his voice comes out more curious than derisive, he readjusts his scarf around his face, irritated and flustered.

Alfyn smiles wryly and scratches the back of his head, though seems pleased to answer him. “I mean, not really. Can’t be too hard, though, right? I feel like you need _something_ filling to eat after yesterday’s, uh, stew.” He laughs, and the sound fills the air around them. Therion hates how accustomed to the noise he’s already become, to the point where it’s simply background noise rather than an annoyance. It’s a weakness: getting used to the idea of someone.

All his life, he’s only ever had to deal with _people,_ and people are easy to read. _Some,_ his mind tells him, but he ignores it. His targets always had tells in their behaviors—when they think they’ve won, when they’re afraid, when they feel threatened and violent.

Now, beyond the cities of rock and wind, beyond lined pockets and unguarded coin purses, he’s out of his element—because Alfyn is an open book, a bit _too_ easy to read, and yet he still doesn’t understand him. With Primrose, he understands all he needs to; that she thinks in the ways he does, to an extent. And that’s sufficient for Therion, since they’ve laid out their material needs and know what’s expected of this union.

But the apothecary is different. Either too trusting, too dumb; or _smart,_ weaseling his way under Therion’s skin, irritating him but deceiving him with a front of kindness and charity, trying to disarm him. Either way, Therion will take precautions to distance himself even more—less talking from now on, unless necessary, and maybe he’ll sleep elsewhere in the nights, less exposed. He won’t be tricked.

_Just—stop thinking. Pull yourself together._

The thief levels a blank look at the apothecary, then strips himself of his drenched poncho. And if he feels eyes on the exposed skin of his chest, where countless scars (but just barely the surface of his collection) scatter into view, he ignores them. “I’ll go.”

Both Primrose and Alfyn raise their brows in alarm, though probably for different reasons. At the same time, they speak, their questions melding together: “And will you actually come back?” begins Primrose, and “ _You_ any good at hunting, Therion?” finishes Alfyn, all curious and light-hearted. Therion doesn’t give them any sort of response, instead taking the time to wring out his mantle before tossing it on the ground, next to the dancer’s cloak. His answer, in the vaguest way possible.

But if he had to choose a time to go, this would be it. It’s the cleanest opportunity to leave, if he’s ever seen one. If only he’d actually had the supplies he needed to make it worth it. The dancer had made sure to keep a close watch on the bags. For now, though, it’s a temporary escape.

Therion straps his dagger securely into its small sheath. Then, stepping past them, he makes his way through an unmarked path, diverging from the main road. “Don’t follow me,” he tells them.

Alfyn doesn’t let up. “It’s dangerous alone,” he reasons, following in hot pursuit. “We should all go together. It’s dark out!”

Therion grumbles under his breath, never skipping a beat, “I’m used to working in the dark.” A murmur of protest rings out behind him, but he ignores it in favor of pushing through low tree branches into the darkness. Alfyn and Primrose continue to talk, likely discussing him, but their voices grow weaker and fainter the farther he walks. Eventually, Therion breaks away from the main road, diverging from the traveler-trodden tracks. The woods are thick, verdant, with long bladed grass leaflets and snake-like tree roots protruding from the earth. He sets each foot down with extra caution, careful not to trip.

The thief weaves between the trees. As an afterthought, he realizes he’s never done something like this. No, he hasn’t hunted game before. But he’s stalked plenty of prey. It can’t be that different.

In the distance, a twig snaps. Therion pauses at once. He directs all his focus into the sounds of the forest—the piercing chirp of insects against the rustle of leaves. It becomes clear just how small he is within the sea of trees and just how little of the night sky he can see. The stars are obscured from view, and without them to guide him, he realizes that wandering too far from the path might have been the wrong choice.

The sound comes again. Dipping into a crouch, he tucks himself against the trunk of a tree. Not too far ahead, a great rumble shakes the vicinity, followed closely by a series of snorts and grunts. His eyes are just barely adjusted to the darkness when a large beast rushes into the clearing in front of him. Therion bites back the swear on the tip of his tongue and, for a moment, forgets to breathe in panic.

The beast—a boar, he realizes—stumbles through the grass. The sheer size of it keeps him from bolting outright. He’s seen his fair share of monsters, of birdians snatching children from cliffsides and hyenas wandering into towns for scraps of food, but animals in the Cliftlands are scrawnier than they are bulky. It’s the resources; the beasts around here must be larger because of the abundance of food.

The boar snorts at the ground, lowering its great snout to sniff at the forest floor. A munching sound follows as it scrapes up bits of grass and moss. Therion reckons it’s almost as tall as he is.

He can call it quits here and flee. _Or_ —he reaches for his dagger—he can secure dinner for days.

Which is the stupidest idea he’s ever had, but something in him feels _spontaneous_ now.

Unsheathing the small blade, Therion bides his time. If he’d had a sword, his approach would be different. But here, with a dagger no larger than half the size of this thing’s tusks, he’ll have to wear it down.

As if sensing him, the animal pauses and raises its head, taking a drawn-out whiff of the air. _Shit_ , Therion thinks—he must be drenched in the stench of sweat and grime. The smells that come with the cliffs. If he doesn’t act now, the beast will—

He hears the thunderous scrape of hooves against dirt before he sees the animal barreling towards him. Therion moves on instinct, stepping away from view with thoughts running too fast for the rest of him to catch up. He swears again when his foot snags onto uprooted, gnarly vines, sending him tripping into the middle of the clearing. Exposed. He turns around to catch sight of the boar disappearing into the brush. He swears; because, while the boar itself is large enough, the forest is even less forgiving—towering, ceaseless, consuming. The plant life swallows all.

 _Yes_ , he thinks—this is his worst idea yet.

Therion grips his dagger with his good hand and gathers his bearings, dipping into a crouched stance. His head remains still, but his eyes swivel from one side of the clearing to the other in search of movement. Silence. He only hears his own deep breaths, rapid puffs that betray his panic.

“Therion?”

The thief tenses, back going rigid at the voice. “Fuck,” he spits, cursing his luck.

A familiar head of messy hair appears through the overlay of branches. Alfyn emerges, winded, with the traces of a red scratch on his cheek, probably from barreling through the woods. When his sights settle on Therion, he practically beams. “Gods, I thought I lost you! Boy am I glad to see—” Movement startles the bushes behind him and the thief doesn’t catch whatever else he says.

Therion lurches forward, bangled arm outstretched, tackling the apothecary to the side before he can say another word. He drags the both of them to their feet, backing up against the trunk of a tree. “Your timing is dumb as _fuck,”_ he thinks he hears himself shout, but it’s lost in the flurry of movement as the boar surges from the cover of the forest once more, headed straight for them.

“Wha—oh,” Alfyn shouts from beside him, then shoves Therion in the opposite direction as he stumbles out of the way. Therion just barely brushes against the tough brindle fur of the boar. “You’re hunting _this?”_

“It’s hunting _me,_ ” he snarls, swinging out, and at last lands his first hit. The sharp edge of his dagger scrapes against the animal’s thick hide, barely doing damage, but enraging it all the same. Alfyn pulls his axe from its place and readies himself to strike, but the boar swerves and comes around to Therion again, too close for him to react. He angles his blade and hopes for the best.

“Watch out!” Alfyn yells.

The boar wails as the apothecary’s axe slices into its hind, sending it rearing to the side. Therion feels a strong grip latch onto his shoulder, heaving him backwards, before he finds himself standing behind the taller man. Red drips from the tip of Alfyn’s axe, and his other arm presses against his gut, as if he’s been kicked. And from the way the animal’s eyes are wide and frenzied, Therion knows he’s not far from the truth.

A cornered animal has no limits. He _knows._

He takes account of their damage; on one hand, the boar is considerably slower than it was before, its wound putting pressure on the muscles of its back leg. On the other hand, they aren’t faring too well, either. Therion’s reach just isn’t long enough to do anything effective.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He should never have even _thought_ about trying this.

Alfyn glances back at him, teeth gritted. “How you doin’ back there?”

Therion, eyes avoiding his, grunts, “Thinking.”

But there isn’t enough time. The boar’s demeanor shifts in a last-ditch effort. The thief senses the attack before it even happens—animals, like the people he’s targeted, have tells too, he supposes. The beast rushes towards them and he clears his head of any and all thoughts. Elbowing Alfyn out of the way, he springs, tip of his knife darting forward.

White.

He thinks he might be dead, because a blur of _white_ flashes over his head, blinding his view. Therion’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes. He blinks in confusion.

“Holy shit.”

The blur of white—the lithe form of a snow leopard—stands with its back to him, shaking its head to and fro with the flesh of the boar thrashing within its bloody maw. Therion staggers backwards, barely registering when his back collides into Alfyn’s front, who stands just as slack-jawed as he. The boar struggles against the leopard’s hold, twisting to strike the cat, and its tusk almost makes contact before something cuts across the air, whizzing past Therion’s face. An arrow.

The boar slumps immediately, heavy body thudding to the ground. Feeling its stillness, the leopard releases the body and turns its wise eyes onto the two.

“Hold, Linde,” a husky voice calls out. The cat’s ears twitch as it gazes beyond them, deep into the forest. Therion doesn’t dare take his eyes off the animal to look.

But Alfyn does. He hears him say beside him, still out of breath, “Er, hello there!”

A woman steps into the clearing, stowing her bow to her side but never slinging it back on. She steps over to the boar’s body to reclaim her fired arrow, wiping the blood off with a fur cloth. Her eyes linger on the felled animal for a stretched few seconds before finally settling on Therion. And then on his wrist.

Her eyes narrow. “Art these the companions thee spake of, Primrose?”

Behind her, Primrose emerges from the trees, all confidence and grace. Alfyn relaxes almost instantly. “Yes, H’aanit. Thank you for your guidance.”

The huntress lowers her head, almost nobly. “Fearen not the worst. They appeare unharmed.” Then she motions to the boar, gaze downcast. “’Tis a shame to see a beast lord of old slain.” She looks to Therion again, some unspoken meaning piercing through in the sharpness of her eyes. “Didst thou provoke the beast?” Her voice does not shake, but the slight bite to it delivers the faintest trace of an accusatory tone.

Therion knows he doesn’t owe this stranger any answers. But still, he scowls and admits, “I was planning to hunt it.”

“Planning? But thou didst not yet set the thought to action?”

Her dialect is thick, one he’s never heard before, but he deciphers the gist of her words. Shaking his head, he instead defers the job of talking to Alfyn, who gladly takes up the role. “When I got here, Therion was already bein’ attacked,” the apothecary supplies.

The answer is sufficient. The fur-clad woman nods and turns away from them, kneeling beside the corpse of the animal. He doesn’t see her face, but Therion assumes her eyes are closed. “Letten the forest reclaimeth thee,” she whispers into the night, and nobody speaks for a few moments. It’s only after H’aanit rises again that Primrose addresses him.

“After you left,” she starts, motioning towards Alfyn, “H’aanit found our camp. She’s offered to guide us to her village tomorrow, and I’ve invited her to share our fire.”

Alfyn smiles, finally stepping forward to greet the huntress. “The more the merrier!” he chirps. “I’m Alfyn, Alfyn Greengrass. If you’ve got any wounds, I can take care of ‘em!”

“An apothecary?” H’aanit asks, somewhat surprised, but thanks him anyway. “I am H’aanit, and my companion is Linde.” The snow leopard snuggles up against her side, low rumble brewing in her throat.

They both turn to Therion, expecting him to speak for himself, but after a prolonged silence, Alfyn laughs, “That’s Therion. Thanks to you and Linde, we’re both in one piece. Thanks!”

Linde’s ears perk up at the gratitude and she slinks around the apothecary’s legs, sniffing him out. The man looks startled at first, but easily slips into a pleased, comfortable posture. Alfyn reaches down, hesitates, then runs his fingers through the beast’s fur, to which he earns a contented purr.

H’aanit watches the exchange with a warmth in her expression, and Primrose, gaze trained on _her,_ smiles too, chuckling in that breathy way of hers. She looks fond of the other woman already—or maybe she’d been sick of their company, so another woman is a breath of fresh air. Therion tries not to think about how absurdly distraught and confused he must look, hair wild and clothing torn in some places and stained green in others from rolling through the forest.

“We should return to the camp,” Primrose suggests. Then she looks abashed and shares a meaningful look with the huntress, one that tells Therion something must have transpired back at the camp after he and Alfyn left. “And we should start another fire.” The other two agree, and Linde guides the way.

 

When they return to the makeshift camp and all is gathered, each strip of wood piled into kindling fodder, Therion takes it upon himself to kneel by the logs and mutter _ignis_ under his breath. A spark flies from his fingertips, racing down a dead branch, before disappearing into fizzling smoke. A moment later, the flame peeks out from beneath the leaves, growing.

“Thou art one with the flame, it seemeth,” H’aanit remarks as she takes a seat across from him. She sets to skinning the boar, making quick, snappy wrist movements with a knife. Under the forest’s cover of darkness, the flicker of flames casts a reddish tone to her skin. “A useful art.”

Her accent is so thick that it takes him a moment to translate. Therion shrugs, hugging his knees closer to himself. “It makes it easier to survive.” Alfyn plops down beside him a second later, elbows nearly knocking into his, and he shoots him a glare for it.

“H’aanit’s right. That’s a great talent, Therion,” he says, holding his palms out to warm them. “I reckon it’s great during winters, too!”

He’s right. He can’t remember how many times his own flame has kept him warm in the nights, when his stomach was empty and his pockets just the same. At least he had his flames, he’d thought back then. At least the Gods gave him this.

“It’s interestin’ how each person has a different element they’re best with. Like me, I’m good with ice. What about you, H’aanit?”

The huntress looks up from her work. “I am best attuned to lightning. But others, I hath heard, controleth no element.”

The conversation feels light. Therion’s surprised himself at how much more tolerable the noise is when it isn’t directed at him. Between H’aanit and Primrose, Alfyn has plenty to talk about. And while it isn’t exactly the _quiet_ he had wanted, he’ll take what he can get.

Stringing slabs of meat onto skewers, Primrose joins them by the fire. The three talk about their hometowns. For the first time, he learns Primrose spent many years in the slums of Sunshade but was not born there. H’aanit tells them S’warkii is half a day’s walk from where they are, and how they are free to lodge with her until they set off on their journey once more. Alfyn, again, speaks of Clearbrook. And not once does anyone ask Therion to contribute.

“When I was younger, Ma used to tell me stories about why we have the elements we have,” the apothecary says. “It’s like a fairytale of sorts now with the children… and kinda childish, but talking about our talents reminded me of it.” He laughs, cheeks tinged with pink in embarrassment.

Primrose tilts her head, shifting into a more comfortable position. “I’d like to hear it, Alfyn.”

H’aanit says the same, having finished with preparing and preserving the boar meat and moving on to stroke Linde’s fur. The snow leopard inhabits the other half of their circle around the flame, stretched out and snoozing lightly.

Alfyn laughs again but relents. He clears his throat, propping both hands on the ground to the sides of his knees to lean forward. “A long time ago, long before Orsterra was really, y’know, Orsterra, people weren’t around yet. The monsters were bigger than they are now, and only the Gods walked the earth and kept them from devouring each other.”

He pauses for a moment, fumbling around for a twig, and with it draws mediocre stick figures into the dirt. “Sorry, Ma always drew pictures for me,” he says as he smiles down at the drawings. Therion counts thirteen of them, but quickly turns away before they realize he’s actually paying attention.

Alfyn points to one figure. “One of the Gods said, ‘Aren’t you guys tired of doing the same thing over and over?’ He didn’t like havin’ to deal with the monsters himself and cultivate the land. The others agreed with him that it was annoying having to do all the work themselves, so they started thinking about how they could get around it. One of the Goddesses said—”

It becomes clear, now, as Alfyn talks, that this _is_ a children’s story. He considers tuning out the rest of the tale, but the apothecary’s voice against the quietness of nature is hard to ignore. It must have a soothing quality to it, too, because Primrose looks like her eyes are closing and she sways a little.

“They decided to create underlings—people—to do the work for them. Using their powers, they each crafted a stone of their own talents. They called them soulstones, because they infused parts of their souls into them.”

H’aanit straightens and listens more attentively. Something has caught her interest. Therion admits that he’s curious, too.

“One by one, the Gods breathed life into the stones, and they became the first people. ‘This was a great idea,’ the Gods agreed. And they told the people to take care of the earth for them so that they could rest.” Alfyn scratches his chin, humming in thought, eyes drawing upwards to the treetops. “But their plan backfired when they found out the people were worse than them. They started to copy the monsters and fight each other, and… well, shucks, I forgot to mention that Ma only told me this story when I wasn’t doing the chores she gave me,” he laughs. “It gets a little sad at the end, because the Gods saw that the people were destroying the world, so they stopped turning stones into humans and left them lying around. The stones still hold bits of their powers, though.”

He leans back, signaling the end of his story. Therion watches the faraway look in the apothecary’s eyes, glossed over with memories of another time. He wonders what he’s thinking about.

The huntress is the first to move, though very carefully so as not to disturb Primrose, who slumbers away against the woman’s shoulder. “That… was an interesting tale, nevertheless,” H’aanit says. She rifles through her pockets and pulls out a yellow stone—a thunder soulstone. “In mine village, we celebraten a custom similar to thy story, Alfyn. Different, mayhap, but resonating.”

Alfyn’s voice is all things warm and welcoming when he responds in a whisper, “I’d love to hear about it!”

“We, too, believen that the soulstones art close to our own essence. They speaken on character. For couples betrothen to marry, ‘tis tradition to exchange a stone of one’s own element with the other, to keepest always near thy heart.”

“That’s a very nice tradition,” Alfyn says earnestly. He stifles a yawn, exhaustion creeping in on him.

Across from Therion, Primrose slips from H’aanit’s shoulder and almost falls to the ground before the huntress sweeps an arm beneath her, cradling her. Awaking with a start, the dancer starts to thrash in the woman’s hold before gathering her senses and calming down. She glances up apologetically. “You caught me by surprise.”

“Worry not,” H’aanit assures, allowing her to sit upright. “We shouldst retire soon. The journey is long on the morrow.”

The women excuse themselves to their bedrolls. With none of his own, Therion considers slipping away like planned, to sleep elsewhere, away from the others.

“You can use mine if you want, Therion,” Alfyn offers, making no notion of leaving the fire. Instead, he shuffles through the items in his satchel, retrieving parchment, ink, and a pen.

Therion says nothing at first, but after eyeing the apothecary, mutters, “Aren’t you going to sleep?”

Alfyn, pleased at the conversation, shakes his head. “I’m going to finish this letter to Zeph before callin’ it quits. What about you?”

“Whatever,” he says, neither answering nor indicating that he ever will. The apothecary looks at him a while longer before turning his attention to his task. Therion remains where he is, pretending not to watch the apothecary’s hands as he scribbles rigid dark lines across the paper. Alfyn begins to hum, and Therion suspects he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

After a while, Alfyn yawns, stretching his arms far above his head, and the sheet slides off of his lap onto the ground, near the fire. Therion reaches for it, pinching the corners of the paper between his fingers, and allows his eyes to roam across its contents, uncomprehending. In the same moment, Alfyn notices and, not so eloquently, snatches the paper from his grasp.

“Sorry, I—um,” he forces out, neck and cheeks oddly pink. He slaps a palm across his face, peering through the gaps between his fingers. “Did you see…?” And he mutters several things under his breath at once, so fast the thief can’t distinguish them.

Therion stares, and he stares _hard,_ dumbstruck.

He doesn’t understand. He thinks back on what he’s done—just picked up the letter?—and _still_ he doesn’t understand.

“What?” He can’t help that it comes out as a question, betraying his confusion. “What’re you babbling on about?”

“I’m sorry, the letter…” Alfyn carefully folds the offending object, tucking it back into his satchel. “Well, I…” They both stare at each other, Therion expecting answers and the apothecary seeming to ready himself for confrontation. Alfyn pauses, finally lowering his hands, as if in realization. His voice comes out quieter. “Therion… I don’t mean to offend or anythin’, I swear on it, but… can you read?”

It takes a moment for the question to fully register, and when it does, Therion recoils, heat crawling up his face, and snarls, “Fuck you.”

“Wait!” Alfyn blurts out, both hands raised again in mock surrender. “I’m not sayin’ there’s anything wrong with that, Therion, I just… you didn’t see the letter, so—”

“Maybe I just didn’t _see_ it,” Therion hisses back, but they both know this isn’t the case, and a wave of silence washes over them. The camp is quiet again. He glances to the bundled bodies slumbering a few feet away and finds H’aanit and Primrose still motionless, though the huntress must be awake and listening, pretending to be asleep with Linde keeping watch against her.

After what feels like an eternity, Therion finds his voice. “There aren’t any churches in the Cliftlands.”

He doesn’t understand _why_ he says this, why he should explain. But it’s too late to take back the words. Alfyn’s already staring at him.

“There aren’t any churches where I grew up. And if you wanted to learn, it’s one or the other—the Church or those schools for the elite. And we had neither.”

He’s said too much. Biting his tongue, Therion turns away. He shouldn’t feel ashamed— _why would he?_ He’s lived all these years just fine without it. In fact, if Alfyn wasn’t who he was—if he wasn’t an apothecary, a profession that _relies_ on books—then he’d probably be the same. Clearbrook is a small village.

Or maybe they have teachers there, more willing to spread knowledge than any noble scum he’s crossed paths with.

He feels a warmth on his shoulder as Alfyn cautiously tries to catch his attention. “Hey,” he says, softly, “do you _want_ to learn? I mean, I’m no teacher, or academic, or whatever, but if you really wanted to, I can give you a boost.”

A breath—Alfyn holding his and Therion’s hitching in surprise.

Therion doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either. Instead, he levels piercing eyes onto the other man, observing, scrutinizing—to the point where Alfyn shuffles uncomfortably beneath his gaze. The hot anger he’d felt before is gone now, replaced with contemplating void. He doesn’t know what to say. Since the day before, since he’s met these people, nothing’s going as planned. Nothing makes _sense._

“You don’t have to answer now!” Alfyn insists. “Just think about it. It won’t hurt my feelings if you say no, so don’t worry about it.” He picks up the twig he’d left by his feet, concentrating on the ground. “Just—"

He scrapes out a word into the dirt. The sound grates against Therion’s ears.

“This is your name. I think. This is how I’ve been writing it.” He laughs. “I don’t actually know how it’s spelled an’ all. But if you were curious, this is what it looks like.”

Therion looks down and the apothecary, finding something else to be embarrassed about, drops the stick and bumbles on about going to bed himself. He gives the thief a warm look; not _pitying,_ Therion knows, because he’s seen pity and it does not look like this.

“Good night, Therion,” Alfyn murmurs before shuffling away. The thief stares after his retreating back.

And while Therion never says anything, never utters a word of thanks (or an insult, for that matter), he stays by the fire long after Alfyn leaves for his own bedroll, eyes trained on the chicken scratch of letters. His chest feels tight. It’s a strange, foreign sensation.

T H E R I O N

Having something to own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soulstone soulmate AU WHERE?
> 
> This ended up being longer than I thought, but I really wanted it all in one chapter. So where the wind blows, I go!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! send any questions @chillshroom on tumblr <3


	6. Through the Darkwood

Morning comes with darkness. He wakes with a start, heart thrumming wildly in his chest as he instinctively freezes, mind falling back on old habits: don’t let them know you’re awake, that you’re listening, that you’re _there._ Panic pulses in his blood and skull, but he holds his breath and counts back from ten. _Listen._ Before he even opens his eyes, Therion hears the movement of birds in the treetops, warbling and trilling. _Oh,_ he thinks, a slow exhale drawing from his lips. Right. The Darkwood.

With his good eye, he takes in the low-hanging branches above him, blinking through the blurriness of morning haze and ignoring the fact that, even after blinking, his other eye can’t see much beyond fuzzy shapes. The stinging ghost pains of a scar long-healed by now dance over the skin tissue. He takes special care to comb his bangs back over it, wincing.

Since the high, leafy branches weave together like a blanket over the entire forest, little light breaks through the foliage to illuminate the forest floor. Therion knows it is morning only because H’aanit is up and about, properly dismantling the fire pit as Linde slumbers not far off.

Sitting upright, he presses his face into his palms, half running his fingers through his tangled hair and half in an attempt to calm his nerves. His body aches. He’d stayed up late into the night thinking about nothing before falling asleep against a tree, far from the others but still within sight.

H’aanit notices him the moment he stirs. “Thou art ill?” she asks, concern dripping in her voice.

“Hn.” Therion closes his eyes and leans back against the tree trunk. He lies, “Headache.”

“Taken this.” He feels something cool press into his hand, and when he opens his eyes again, he finds a waterskin, cap already unscrewed. A moment later, a carefully wrapped package falls into his lap. “Thou shouldst eat afore our departure.” Her eyes freeze over the sight of his bangle, but she quickly diverts them.

He stares at the parcel in his hands, unsure of what to say. Food, without working for it, dropped into his hands just like that. He analyzes the package with trained eyes, looking for some sort of fault in it. But there is nothing—it’s simply a few strips of dried meat the huntress must have prepared for herself.

Belatedly, Therion grunts out a poor semblance of thanks. Maybe there are _some_ perks to traveling in groups. Unraveling the package of jerky and gnawing slowly on a tough strip, he allows his attention to drift across the campsite, roaming over the expanse of trees and bushes. The others, it seems, are still asleep. He hears Alfyn snoring softly, sleeping on his side, and Primrose’s barely audible puffs of breaths from within her bundle of blankets. By the dying embers of the fire, H’aanit begins to kick dirt over the ashes. She pauses at Alfyn’s scraggly drawings from the night before, and he hears a whuff of a laugh as she shakes her head, erasing them. Then she hovers above the other writing.

Clearing his throat, Therion pushes himself to his feet. He avoids her stare and the blatant curiosity she boils in as she kicks dirt over the rest of the words. Seeking out his poncho instead, he stoops beside their collective pile of rain-drenched clothes, now more or less dry. The end of Alfyn’s bedroll sits inches from his feet, and the man himself lies curled in on himself within, face pressed against his arm for a pillow. Alfyn’s hair, loose from his typical updo, sticks out in different directions, a wild mane that somehow looks messier than it normally does. He mumbles something in his sleep and Therion rolls his eyes. “Should I wake them?” he calls back to H’aanit, not quietly.

Alfyn shoots up mid-snore, wrestling with his blanket. “Wha—” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve, before blinking blearily up at Therion’s face. He stares for several seconds before, catching himself, grinning. “Mornin’ Therion!”

Waking up in the company of others is lively. Back when he’d shared shelter (and sometimes even an inn bed) with Darius, they woke up in the same somber quiet they’d fallen asleep in. Grumbling—either through the words in their mouths or in their stomachs. After the first year or two, Darius had stopped acknowledging him in the mornings, slipping away at daybreak to carry out his own business.

Alfyn seems to have no problem waking up at a moment’s notice. The weariness vanishes from his body and he’s all sunshine and smiles like usual. He stretches out, shoulders popping with a satisfying crack, and runs a hand through his bed head, threading through each brown lock. Therion forces his eyes away and instead tosses the man his apothecary’s jacket from the pile.

The garb hits the apothecary in the face, muffling the loud yawn he’d started. Alfyn extracts the semi-dry fabric from his face before slipping it over his shoulders. He doesn’t miss a beat. “Shucks, that might’ve been the best sleep I’ve had in _weeks!_ ”

Therion can’t say the same, so he doesn’t say anything. A few feet away, Primrose sits up from her own bedroll, long hair cascading like rivulets down her shoulders, untied. She gazes at him blankly, looking as if her thoughts are caught in some distant haze, before shaking her head and breaking out of her trance. Sweeping her hair into a ponytail, she starts to pack all of her belongings.

After each bedroll is rolled up again and tucked away, they start their way through the forest. Linde slithers between the trees, slinking in between darkness and patches of light. Not too far behind, H’aanit leads them up and down hidden paths, away from the road. “Tis a shorter path,” she explains, pushing back a low branch for Primrose to pass. The dancer smiles up at her and they speak in hushed murmurs—Therion thinks he hears the mention of far sands, of small towns and shoddy, dust-filled beds. How last night’s rest might have been one of her better ones. H’aanit gives an appreciative hum, commenting, “Letten the spirits blessen thee and keepen thy journey safe.”

Therion hovers closely behind to listen, straining his ear against each of their heavy footfalls. But they speak too quietly—perhaps unintentionally, the sound of their voices drowned out in the sounds of nature—for him to make sense of their conversation. He gives up entirely when Alfyn bumps into him, falling into a pace beside him. He leans close to speak into Therion’s ear: “How’re you farin’, Therion? H’aanit told me about your headache.”

Therion’s shoulders tense in alarm at the closeness, and it takes most of his willpower to keep from moving as far as possible from the apothecary. Instead, the thief frowns into the distance, avoiding eye contact as he speaks. “It’s gone,” he says. A beat later, “Wasn’t a big deal.”

Alfyn’s brows furrow and his lips press together into a concerned line. “Well, alright,” he says, relenting. “But if it acts up again, just let me know, ‘kay? I can brew a nice tea for you.”

This confuses him to no end. Words acting faster than his mind, he snarks, “What do _you_ get out of this situation anyway?”

It’s his first mistake—initiating _conversation._ Alfyn grins as if he’s finally caught something in his trap, and Therion scowls for easily walking into it. But his mind flashes back to that look he’d given him the night before—the _not_ pity—and a part of him admits that he is curious, that he is inclined to observe the medicine man a while longer. Truly good people don’t exist, after all, and anyone playing that game of pretenses hides something murkier within.

 _Until I leave,_ Therion decides. He’ll play along until an opening appears and _then_ he’ll steal away at night. And take other things while he’s at it.

“I never did tell you how Prim an’ I ended up at Bolderfall, huh!” Alfyn ducks under a branch, the top of his head brushing against the leaves. He waits for Therion to catch up before continuing, “Prim found me—well, I crashed into her—right as I was rushin’ to this cave. See, Zeph’s sister got this nasty viper bite.”

He goes on about their race against time; Primrose’s insistence that she could help him and Alfyn’s worry-induced tunnel vision as he barged into the cave where the giant snake slithered between the walls, watching their every move. Primrose chuckles at every exclamation of his retelling. Her eyes lock onto Therion’s as she explains to H’aanit, “I’ve never seen someone step into a pit of snakes like it was regular grass. And then, like he forgot I was there, Alfyn started to have a conversation with it, apologizing—”

Alfyn’s makes a strangled noise, red creeping up his neck. “Hey! To be fair, I don’t really remember much of what happened. I was too busy worryin’ about Nina.”

The dancer laughs, a melodic, tinkling sound, one that shakes her to her core so badly that she presses a hand against her chest to steady herself. “Oh, Alfyn,” Primrose says, fondness shining through her humor, “what you did for that sweet girl was honorable.”

Again, the apothecary flushes, but this time he dips his head in embarrassment. “Aw, shucks,” he starts, shaking his head, “Zeph’s my best bud and Nina’s practically a sister. But I would’ve done the same for _anyone_ who needed it. I’m lucky you were around, I couldn’t’a done it without you.”

 _Anyone,_ huh? Awfully charitable. Unrealistically. But he _had_ treated Therion’s wounds without expecting much… though it might be too early to say for sure.

As they speak, H’aanit observes Therion, cool eyes washing over his appearance. He feels them linger on his hand, narrow in confusion again, then relax, as if she’s forcing herself to maintain apathy. After so many times, he’s starting to wonder if he’s getting used to the scrutiny—and he decides _no,_ he won’t ever be used to the attention the stupid thing gets him. “Didst thee joineth them on the road, Therion?” she asks. She conceals any hint of judgment or suspicion, exuding alarming neutrality.

It takes him a bated breath before he answers, “No.” When she looks at him longer, he shifts in discomfort and sighs. “Just ask the damn question. I know you’re thinking about it.”

H’aanit doesn’t even hesitate, as if she was already going to ask it. “Doth thy companions knoweth the true nature of thy profession?” She doesn’t lower her voice or give any hint of wanting discretion, speaking in such a loud, clear voice that Alfyn or Primrose couldn’t mishear her accusation if they tried. Maybe she’d wanted to expose him. He doesn’t doubt it.

Her gaze pierces through him, and only then does Therion feel the intensity of her judgment. As if sensing the shift in her partner’s disposition, Linde halts not too far ahead, ears twitching. Therion doesn’t say anything. The dancer and apothecary stop walking, shooting each other indecipherable looks then stepping closer to the thief. Alfyn slings an arm over Therion’s shoulder (he pretends not to flinch) and Primrose idly fiddles with her hair. “We’ve known from day one that he’s got sticky fingers, H’aanit,” Alfyn says, and he says it with a laugh, trying to slice through the tension. “But Therion’s a good guy, we wouldn’ta taken him with us if he wasn’t.”

 _Liar._ Therion’s surprised he has it in him—to tell a lie so obliquely that it feels like truth. Who sees a thief in their room, rifling through their belongings, swinging at them with a knife, and thinks they’re _good?_

Primrose isn’t as dishonest. “We have similar goals, so for now, we’re traveling together.”

Therion wonders if this is the moment the huntress reconsiders their team and whether she should be leading them right to her village. H’aanit purses her lips, and he can almost see the thoughts running through her mind. But she gives a resolute nod instead. “Forgiven me for mine own impertinence,” she says. “I feared thou hadst fallen for trickery and thievery, but I wast too quick to assumen. My apologies, Therion.”

Therion grunts, but Alfyn, whose arm still drapes over him, nudges him. “It’s fine,” he grumbles out.

“However,” the huntress begins again, “S’warkii is under my protection. Thou wilt remember not to taken what is not thine own if thou favoreth thy hand.”

He tenses for the briefest of moments before looking away. It’s not a promise. He’s learned not to make or take those.

When H’aanit deems her message delivered, she turns on her heel and continues walking. She asks Primrose a question and, falling back into their casual banter, the dancer keeps up with her easily. Therion shrugs Alfyn’s arm off and trudges after the duo. At some point, Linde grows bored with leading the group and breaks away, circling around to keep a trot beside the two at the front. She glances over her shoulder at Therion and he tries not to shrink into himself as the glow of her eyes trails after him him.

“Therion,” Alfyn calls out, huffing after him. “Slow down for a minute, would ya?”

His pace doesn’t relent. “You didn’t have to—” His foot slips on a mossy root, but he catches himself, continuing on. “—You didn’t have to do that,” he grits out finally.

The apothecary makes a confused sound, standing right behind him. _Damn those long legs,_ Therion thinks. “Do what?”

They seem to be walking on an incline, trudging an uphill battle. H’aanit brings them back to the main path, leading them through a winding road between the trees. Alfyn, in one long stride, outpaces him. He asks again, “Do what, Therion?”

“Defend me!” comes out louder than he’d anticipated. The two women look over their shoulders at him but face forward again when he readjusts his scarf, wishing it would consume him. Quieter, he hisses to the apothecary, “I had it handled!”

“I don’t see how staying quiet was ‘handling’ it, but okay,” Alfyn snorts. But all the same, his expression softens. “C’mon, it’s not like I was saying anythin’ wrong.”

A blank stare. “You don’t even know me.” _And you’re too naïve for your own good._

He receives another bark of a laugh. “And you _definitely_ don’t make it easy.”

He’s laughing… at him? No, not quite. Therion scowls. “I’m only staying as long as I need to. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Alfyn sobers for a moment. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “Bringing you along with us was on a whim, huh. But I’m glad you’re here with us now.”

They trek onwards in silence, Therion brewing in his own questions. The entire exchange leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Protection, from _them?_ He can handle his own fights.

By the time even a hint at civilization comes into view, the soles of his feet ache. H’aanit slows them down to talk with another hunter at the town’s entrance, gesturing and speaking in hushed tones. Then, bidding him farewell, she waves for them to follow her.

S’warkii is quaint, and Therion could argue that it’s doesn’t look like a village at all, but more like a campground. The buildings appear reclaimed by the nature surrounding it, trees arching into houses and moss dusting the rooftops. The people don’t look like they’ve settled _in_ the forest, but that they’ve settled _around_ it. All around him he finds huts fashioned in a mixture of modern and natural designs. If S’warkii is a village, then it is one the forest has swallowed whole.

H’aanit leads them further inside, and as she walks by, each and every passerby shouts a greeting to her. “Faring well, H’aanit?” an older woman calls out, basket of fruits in hand. “We missedst thee on the hunt.”

 “I am well, thanke thee,” the huntress answers in turn, asking after the woman’s health and the hunt’s success. Then she turns to them. “These travelers art guests of mine.”

“Guests of dear H’aanit! My, if Z’aanta couldst witness with his own eyes!”

H’aanit coughs and her face contorts into what Therion assumes is embarrassment. “I—It wolde not do to leaveth the headman in wait. Fare thee well, ma’am.”

“Goodness, always the busy one,” the woman chortles. Then, catching Therion’s eye, she looks him up and down before reaching into her basket and offering them each an apple. “May the spirits blessen thy paths.”

He takes the apple when she presses it into his hands but can’t wipe the bewilderment from his face. Alfyn thanks the small woman, holding the fruit up into a patch of sunlight to admire its red gleam. Smiling fondly, H’aanit steers them away to a small cabin near the center of the village.

“Though small, S’warkii hath much to offer,” she tells them. “Thou may restest in mine home. To the east, thou wilt findest the tavern… should thou wishest to partaken in spirits. Speaken mine name and they shouldst welcome thee. I feare there is not time enough to showest thee the way, for I must speaken with the headman at once.”

“Thanks, H’aanit,” Alfyn says, giving their surroundings an appreciative once-over. “You’ve been a great help!”

The huntress dips her head in a gracious half-bow. “Tis my pleasure to helpen those in need.”

With that, she departs to the other end of the village, braided hair swishing behind her. Linde slinks after her in a lazy gait, brushing along the legs of other villagers who stoop to scratch her between the ears. “Linde!” Therion hears them coo. “Thou returnest from a bountiful hunt?”

Left to their own devices, the three stand in the center of the village, unsure, before Primrose leads the way into the huntress’ home. The door pushes inwards with a low creak to reveal a dim single room. Spotting a lantern on the table, Therion lights it with the flick of his wrist.

H’aanit’s house is simple and organized, but not simple in the sense that it’s empty. Simple in that it’s everything Therion has ever imagined is part of a normal house—a table for meals, a bed for sleeping, small personal belongings; nothing of material value, but of personal value. It’s in the small things—the paring knife on the table, the different sized quivers slung against the chairs, the tanned furs lining the walls. He feels out of place.

“Mighty kind of her to let us stay with her,” Alfyn says, kicking the dirt and muck off his shoes before stepping further inside. He unloads his belongings into a corner of the small room then lets out a loud yawn. “Gosh, I want to take a nap, but it’s probably best if I don’t.”

“We should explore the village like H’aanit said,” Primrose suggests. “There’s still light out for hours.”

Alfyn agrees, and the two, taking Therion’s silence for affirmation, head back outside. A young girl darts past them, a juvenile crow cawing after her, and Primrose narrows her eyes in distaste. She watches the pair in silence, expression shuttered and conflicted as the girl extends her arm into a perch and the dusk-colored bird lands on it with practiced ease. She bites her lip.

“Interestin’ how close to animals they are,” the apothecary comments amidst her contemplation, likely not noticing her tension. Therion absorbs every shift in her demeanor as she physically wrenches herself into the present, writhing away from whatever nostalgia had pinned her. Primrose forces the muscles in her face to twitch into a smile, not unlike the way noble-born girls are forced to curtsy to their elders and other men, dipping low for a blink of an eye before straightening out. Obligation or etiquette; it's a trained reaction.

They make their way to the easternmost corner of the village. The tell-tale sign marking the tavern squeaks and swivels each time the door opens, hanging haphazardly above the doorframe. Alfyn perks up first at the sight of it, visibly standing taller and walking with an added bounce in his step. “Someone’s excited,” Therion comments, a wryness in his tone that he lets slip by mistake.

Alfyn just laughs and wraps his arms around both of their shoulders, leading them right into the tavern.

“Hey—” Therion starts, but the sound is lost in the clinking of glasses.

“C’mon, Therion, let me buy you a drink!” the taller man beams. “And Prim too!”

The dancer chuckles and shakes her head. “None for me, thank you.” They step up to the barkeep and introduce themselves, mentioning H’aanit’s name like she’d told them to. The woman at the counter looks them over, weighing their words before ultimately nodding.

“Any friend of H’aanit’s is a friend of mine,” she says, lacking that same dialect of the other hunters. “Have a seat. I’ll give y’all the works.”

Primrose perches on the edge of her stool, leaning against the counter. “I didn’t think H’aanit would be one to frequent taverns often.”

The barkeep laughs, a hearty sound. “Oh, no,” she says, calling one of the kitchen help to take an order. “H’aanit’s hardly ever a patron herself. It’s Z’aanta who was always here, making that poor girl come all the way out to drag his sorry self away from the bottle.”

The dancer tilts her head. “Z’aanta?”

“Best hunter in this village. I don’t know much o’ the story myself, but he loves her like a daughter. Talks mad ‘bout her when he’s deep into his drinks, too.”

This brings a warm smile to Alfyn’s face. “Sounds like they were close.”

A figure looms behind Therion, moving past him before he fully registers their presence. “I wolde argue he and I weren _too_ close.”

“H’aanit!” Alfyn greets, turning in his seat. “You finished up your business?”

“Quite so. I taken thou foundest thy way without trouble?”

“Perfectly well,” says Primrose. She hums in appreciation as the barkeep sets a platter of roasted meats before her, giving a murmur of thanks. “S’warkii is quite homely. Thank you for guiding us, H’aanit.”

“I didn’t think we’d make it here so fast,” Alfyn chimes in. He glows when the barkeep sets his meal before him and calls for a mug of ale. “Honestly, I never thought I’d get as far as Bolderfall an’ here I am!”

Therion stares at his own meal, fork hovering over the plate. Unknown fragrances assault his nostrils, and his stomach rumbles. He brings a sliver of meat to his lips, inhaling the steam before chewing on it thoughtfully. The flavors burst on the tip of his tongue and he swallows the piece down.

“That good, huh?” he hears beside him. Alfyn, head propped on one arm, watches him with sparkling eyes.

Flustered, Therion glances back down at his plate. “Food’s food,” he says.

When the apothecary smiles, he notices, his nose scrunches slightly and his eyes squint together, stretching the grin all the way across his face. He motions to the barkeep. “Could we have a glass for my friend here, too?”

 _Friend._ Therion snorts but brushes it off. “Make it double.”

“Oh?” H’aanit takes the stool on Alfyn’s right. “Doth thee holdeth thy liquor well, Therion?”

The mug appears before him still foaming. He raises it to his lips, relaxing as the familiar bitter taste washes down his throat. Setting it down, he shoots the huntress a bored look. “I’m not _bad.”_

It comes with the profession. After all, loose lips might earn a thief some good tips. He’d learned the hard way that some people drink far more than they should, though, and knows when to call it quits.

When Darius had offered him that first glass when he was young—nearly fourteen—he’d hated the taste. Some drinks filled his throat and lungs with a burning so hot he felt it in his chest days after. And the smell lingered. Regular bar-goers smelled a certain way—smelled stale, smelled like the musky fur of a long-dead animal. Alcohol seeped into the skin and showed in the eyes. These were the ones he’d learned to avoid if he could. They outdrink you easily.

H’aanit, sensing his mind drifting, turns to Alfyn instead for small talk. Beside him, Primrose polishes her meal with the tinny sounds of cutlery clinking against the dish. She doesn’t even hide her stare this time as she watches him, body angled towards him.

“You don’t make it easy, do you?”

He answers her with his mouth still full. “What.”

The dancer twirls a brown lock of hair around her finger absently. “You’re set on this ‘lone wolf’ thing, aren’t you? I don’t mind it myself. I can see it comes from experience.” Her voice is soft, just loud enough that he can hear. Perhaps purposefully so. “But Alfyn? That’s not something he can understand. He _will_ keep trying to befriend you.”

Therion scoffs around his food. He takes another swig from his mug before fully turning to her. “If you understand so well, then why are you sticking around? What’s got _you_ so hard-pressed to stay with a hick like him?”

She neither flinches nor makes any discernible notion of offense. “Solitude is arbitrary. Being alone wasn’t quite what I thought it to be. Nor beneficial.”

She says this like it’s supposed to mean something to him, but as far as Therion’s concerned, it falls on deaf ears. He brings his attention back to his meal, closing himself off by hunching forward. The meat is cold now.

“And Therion?”

Stifling the grumble of complaint in his throat, he nods his head towards her.

“We thought you’d die.”

This catches his attention. He pauses, fork half-way to his mouth, before putting it down. Primrose gives him a grave look, one that speaks of harshness and unwilling honesty. She continues, “ _I_ thought you’d die, that first night. I was ready to let you go. Whatever it was they gave you, it was enough that the amount that slipped into your bloodstream from that tiny cut stopped your heart. Twice you stopped breathing. Alfyn wouldn’t let you go.”

He says nothing, refusing to meet her eyes. But the coldness that ghosts along his skin makes him feel the severity of her tone.

“He didn’t sleep that night. You were unconscious, so you wouldn’t know—but he told me even if you somehow pulled through, it wouldn’t be fine for a while. That he wanted to keep you with us. Neither of us thought you’d walk it off the next day like it was nothing.”

Finally, he finds his voice. “So what? You want my undying gratitude? _Money?_ Well, shit, because we’ve got a shortage on both.”

Primrose shakes her head. “No. Neither. But the man saved your life. Be a little kinder to a ‘hick like him.’”

She slides from the barstool, snuffing out any chance for him to remark. Though it isn’t as if he would have said anything. Therion, appetite fully lost, pushes his plate to the opposite edge of the counter. He sits for a while beside Alfyn, who gestures widely, locked in his conversation with H’aanit. Alfyn, none the wiser about the storm he’s brewed within Therion’s mind. His gut twists on itself. Guilt? He can’t say for sure, but it brings a bout of nausea to his throat, the smells around him suddenly overbearing.

Disoriented, Therion presses his forehead into the flat of his palms. The scar tissue around his eye throbs again, and he wonders if the smell of death was the sickeningly sweet stench of herbs he’d woken to just a sunrise ago. And worse yet—whether that same smell that dances off Alfyn’s skin means _life_ too.

He downs the rest of his drink in one go, wishing his thoughts into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE the Woodlands so much because 1) the music and 2) it's so dark! the patches of light and the trees are beautiful! But on the other hand, I spent the other night walking into a rock without realizing it because a damn tree blocked the entire screen. Trees, why???
> 
> As usual, thank you for reading! + find me on tumblr @chillshroom !!


	7. Red Like Roses

It’s nauseating, the liquor. But he drinks it anyway. Feels it rush down his throat, feels the faint buzz of pleasure clawing at his brain, masking his warring thoughts with a healthy dosage of _distraction_ instead.

He shouldn’t care, right? What difference does it make if some busy-body medicine man decided to save his life? But even as the thoughts cross his mind, he feels an uncomfortable lump lodged in his throat and he knows he can’t ignore this feeling like he does others. Call it pride; call it stupid or unnecessary—but he’s not so callous as to forget a hand that’s helped him like _this_.

_Unlike a certain someone._

Still, ignorance was bliss. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’d thought the entire situation wasn’t that big a deal—that yes, Alfyn might have helped him out, but Therion would’ve pulled through without his interference. It’s what he’s always done. What he always _does._

Maybe he’d overestimated the Gods’ mercy. Maybe, after so many chances, his death that night had been written into fate—but Alfyn changed the alignment of the stars in his persistence. If that is the case, then the Gods will soon come for what was stolen from them. Even the most charitable bend no rules for death.

Or he’s overthinking this, _again._ He takes another swig. Therion only just faintly feels the tingling sensation of alcohol in his system when Primrose steps beside him, pushing the half-finished mug away. How many was he at? Just two?

“We’re heading out,” she tells him. Nothing remains of her scathing countenance of before. Behind her, H’aanit and Alfyn squat on the floor, hands combing through Linde’s white fur. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed the empty seat beside him, nor the fact that most of his dishes had been cleared away already.

He stares at the door, which opens as another customer enters. Even if S’warkii is dark by nature, he can tell that the sun’s still out by the small patches of light that shine through the leaves. It’s not nearly nightfall yet. He contemplates his options—staying here, drowning his brain deeper and deeper into the void? Or following them and wandering off on his own?

Likely the latter. His pockets are still empty of leaves, and he’s tired of ale. And by the way Primrose crosses her arms, staring at him, he knows she wouldn’t let him stay.

Rising from his stool, Therion nods his thanks to the barkeep and gives the dancer a vague shrug of his shoulders, signaling his agreement. She turns over her shoulder to speak to the others, who rise to their feet as well. H’aanit calls out her thanks to the woman at the counter, wishing her a fair day, and they set off.

Outside, Alfyn, face red, fans himself with one hand. “Now that was refreshing!” he chirps. “Haven’t had a good drink since back home!”

Therion raises a brow, unimpressed. Already, what little sense of inebriation he feels drains away, leaving him weary and overly conscious. “You had a drink back in Bolderfall,” he says. “At the tavern.”

“But, shucks, I was too busy worryin’ about keeping up the act for Prim that I—wait.” The apothecary lowers his arm and turns to face him fully. “Were you there, Therion? I didn’t notice you at all!”

He rolls his eyes. “You didn’t notice _anything._ The moment you stepped into that tavern, you were marked by every thief in the room.” As he speaks, he scans his surroundings for an opportunity to break off from the group. But the path is narrow—there’s only one direction to walk in—and he finds himself stuck with this company.

Alfyn presses on, a bounce in his step. “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t notice you before! We could’a had a drink together if I’d known. Maybe talked a little before you… uh…” His mouth stretches into an awkward smile. “Appeared in our room.”

There it is again—all smiles. Not a trace of animosity. Therion considers whether it's even possible for the apothecary to have any malicious intent. He’s too _open,_  too readable, that he imagines he'd be bad at lying _._  He’s genuinely…

Something. He doesn’t have a word for him yet.

They pass through the same path that led them there. Around him, the forest sways. The wind rakes through the treetops like a large hand brushing its fingertips against the leaves. Alfyn steps into a patch of sunlight and he’s more vibrant than ever before, sunburnt strands of hair gleaming like expensive threads of gold under the light. However ridiculous his hair is in theory, Therion realizes, the man pulls off the look well.

Alfyn catches him staring. He raises his brow, lip half-quirked up, and tilts his head. “Really green compared to Bolderfall, huh?”

Therion eyes him up and down, taking in all the greens on the apothecary himself, from his green jacket to the grass stains across his sleeves. He knows the man is talking about the nature surrounding them, but the answer to both questions is the same. Alfyn was— _is—_ too green for Bolderfall, for all of the Cliftlands. So different. And maybe that’s why Therion doesn’t know what to do with him.

Even worse—he’s starting to get _used_ to this odd confusion. To think it’s only been two days since everything started going downhill. It’s happened very _fast._

“I’m gonna take a walk,” announces Therion. It comes out like a blurted shout.

Primrose and H’aanit give him puzzled looks. “We’re walking right now, Therion,” Primrose says.

“No—” He swallows, not quite able to put the words in his head together. “Alone.”

Something clicks in Primrose’s head and she purses her lips into a frown. Therion realizes, belatedly, that she must think he’ll disappear the moment they take their eyes off him. And while she isn’t wrong, since he himself knows he _will_ vanish one of these days, it won’t be like this. Not so obviously.

He continues, “I’ll find my way around.”

The other three look at him as if he’s grown another head, though probably for different reasons each. H’aanit’s emotions are carefully composed on her face, revealing nothing but pondering confusion. Alfyn’s expression mirrors Primrose’s in some ways, though somber and understanding. In the dancer herself, he senses suspicion and distrust.

Opening her mouth, Primrose starts to object, but Alfyn steps in front of her before her voice comes out, something knowing and disappointed—and _worried?—_ in his eyes that he masks with a smile. “Alone time, huh. Alright,” he tells Therion. He takes a deep breath, one that seems to shudder through his chest. “We’ll meet you back at H’aanit’s home by nightfall?”

Despite his smile, he looks like a kicked puppy, shoulders slack and hands thumbing at the edge of his shirt. Therion imagines himself retorting some scathing remark—a _don’t count on it_ or an off-handed _whatever._ But Primrose’s words come to mind and he halts the words on the tip of his tongue with reluctance. He frowns at himself, irked by his own hesitation, and raises his scarf so it covers his nose and mouth. Inhale. Exhale. Returning to a sense of familiarity.

“Yeah,” he says. The result is immediate: Alfyn perks up, clinging to the promise, and falls back into his cheery self. Again, Therion frowns, unable to place the cause for relief that breaks across the apothecary’s posture and face. Primrose stays quiet, though her presence feels loud as she trains those judgmental eyes on him as usual.

Unsurprisingly, it is H’aanit who remains wary. She crosses her arms, not quite frowning but not quite indifferent either. “Rememberen mine words, Therion,” she says, and Therion can’t help the way goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. Then the huntress’ expression lightens. “Ah. I knowe.” She lowers herself to Linde’s height, scratching behind her ears. “Linde wilt accompany thee.”

Instinctively, Therion steps back, alarm vibrating beneath his skin. “What?”

She doesn’t miss a beat, rising to stand tall once more. “Shouldst thou losest thy way, Linde shalt guide thee.” The unsaid message in her words rings out loud and clear to all to hear it, though: Linde will keep his hands from straying far.

The feline observes him with her wide, curious eyes. His own stare flickers from her eyes to her mouth and, in the briefest of moments, to her claws. “Fine,” he says, but his voice sounds strained. By height, the snow leopard reaches just above his hips. _She won’t have to jump high to reach my throat,_ he thinks, and regrets it immediately after when the animal moves towards him and he flinches.

“We’ll be near the center of the village if you need us,” Alfyn tells him, pointing in the general direction. “Don’t be a stranger. We’ll see you soon!”

It’s odd, having his word trusted so willingly and so blindly believed. But Therion pegs it as something normal to Alfyn’s character and disregards the awkwardness it makes him feel. He turns away, the fabric of his poncho twisting and turning in the movement, and leaves them. The prickling sensation against the back of his neck tells him that it’s a long while before they continue walking their path, watching him instead.

Linde brushes against his legs, hot on his trail. He fights every urge in his body to run for the nearest cover. At a fork in the road, she stops and tilts her head at him, inquiring.

His mouth goes dry. “What do you want?” he grumbles out, hand inching towards his dagger in its hidden strap.

The oversized cat turns her head again, ears twitching. Her tail swishes behind her and she arches, front legs pushing forward, low against the ground, and rear end raised as she stretches her long body. Therion releases his hold on his dagger as she flattens her ears against her head and opens her maw in a wide-mouthed yawn. _Teeth._ He shudders. When she straightens out again, it’s with her curious eyes on him again, somewhat lighter than before. Humored.

Therion doesn’t move, hands pressed against his sides. “Are you messing with me?” It takes him another moment to realize he’s talking to a beast that can’t answer back. Flustered, he glances from side to side, searching for onlookers, and sighs in relief when there are none. He shoots an irate look at the snow leopard, whose large tail continues to slide back and forth against the dirt road. “Cut it out.”

Again, she tilts her head. Therion sighs and continues forward, not bothering to look behind to see if she follows. The soft padded footfalls against his ears already tell him all he needs to know.

S’warkii itself is a small village, nowhere near as large as the slumtowns of Bolderfall. He wonders if it’s bigger than Clearbrook, but winces and forces himself to think of other things. That’s the point of this, isn’t it? To finally get the peace and quiet he wants; not a word from nosy apothecaries or dancers.

In the distance, a group of children run around in circles, squealing and giggling. They don garbs similar to H’aanit’s, all brown hides, fur-lined hoods and boots. Not much farther, two women watch over them. They whisper and laugh to each other, huddled closely, and fiddle with flowers in their hands, weaving the stems together. The forms of other hunters, beasts at their sides, stand starkly against the outer edges of the village, keeping watch.

Strangely enough, Therion feels at peace. With the breeze against his nose and the way the smell of forest moss seems to fill his lungs, he finds relief in just _feeling._ Maybe, for once, he’s a little happy to be here in this very moment. To feel alive.

But the moment is short-lived. At his side, Linde makes a little chuffing sound, ears twitching before she bounds towards the children. For a moment, sheer terror washes over Therion—that she’ll attack them, tear them to shreds. But the children look up at the sound of the snow leopard and their high-pitched laughter bubbles out even louder than before.

“It’s Linde!” they cheer, and rush to the cat. And he is left to gawk at the scene before him: five children shorter than the beast in height, scrambling to throw themselves over her. Linde dodges them with practiced ease, tail smacking one girl in the face. She leaps and they chase her.

The sudden commotion draws the attention of the women, who look up from their flower crowns. “Ah, tis Linde,” one comments, unconcerned. “H’aanit hath returned.” She resumes her weaving like nothing is amiss.

The other woman, however, sets her bundle of flowers aside and rises, brushing clinging petals from her skirt. Her alarmed stare catches his. “But that is not H’aanit,” she says, speaking in a notably different accent. “T’aali, it is a stranger.”

Her companion looks up again, and seeing him this time, jumps to her feet as well. They watch him, wary, before the first woman who’d noticed him approaches to greet him.

“Hello, traveler,” she calls out. “Are you new to the village?” She motions vaguely at Linde. “A friend of H’aanit?”

He must be a sight to behold, unkempt hair and dirt-caked clothes. Suspicious. In the vibrant greens of S’warkii, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Clearing his throat, he nods and pulls the scarf from his face, already thinking up a cover story. A different persona. Therion’s lips twitch into a smile and he makes a point of standing straighter, more inviting. But even as an act, one that he’s pulled several times before, the smile he wears feels wrong on his face.

“I got lost in the Darkwood and H’aanit guided me here,” he explains, voice lilting in a grating, chipper kind of way.

The other woman—T’aali?—nods in sympathy. “Many a traveler cometh to our village in the same way. Forgiven us for disturbing thee. So deep in the woods, tis not often we findest a stranger in our midst.”

“Oh, it’s alright.” Therion looks on as the children chase Linde across the grass, absorbed in some game of tag. “From what I’ve seen, it’s a beautiful place.”

 _Gods,_ he hates the way his words come out so happy-sounding. But he can’t show them this, so he tightens his smile and makes sure to keep his bangled wrist hidden from view. Luckily, the draping fabric of his mantle makes it easy enough. The women appear satisfied with his agreeableness and properly convinced of his harmlessness.

“Well then,” says the first woman, “we wouldn’t want to keep you. May the spirits bless your travels, sir.”

He thanks them. Satisfied, they make their way back to the pile of flowers, anxiety eased. Therion gives a sigh of relief and brings his attention back to the snow leopard frolicking about in the grass. For a moment, he considers leaving her behind to do what what he pleases, but the looming threat of a certain huntress’ wrath erases the idea from his mind. The not so distant image of a dead boar, arrow lodged into its skull, comes to mind and he winces. No, he’d rather live with his stupid bangle forever than risk her ire.

Heading for the loud group of children, he resigns himself to keep his word. “Linde,” he calls, standing a few feet away from them, careful not to intrude. “I’m going.”

The beast ignores him in favor of a young girl who throws flower petals onto her back. Leaning forward, Linde licks a large stripe across the girl’s face which prompts a stringing bout of giggles. The other children, a boy and two girls, gape at him in interest. “Who’re you?” demands the boy, standing upright with his tiny fists at his hips.

Children. He can’t say he deals with them particularly well, notwithstanding the times he’d spared change once or twice for some kids that grew up in the slums. As a child, he’d never talked much with others his age either. The temptation to throw up his guard with them as he’d done with the women crosses his thoughts for a second, but he disregards it. Too much work. “Therion,” he says simply.

They roll his name across their tongues. “Ther-i-on,” a girl choppily pronounces. Linde, sulky with her attention stolen, scampers back to his side.

“Why are you with Linde, Therion?” asks the boy.

“She’s giving me a tour.”

“Oh!” The girl who had been throwing flowers at Linde jumps up. “We can do that for you!”

 _Shit._ “I don’t think—”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish, for she darts to him, grabbing a fistful of his mantle, and drags him forward by it. The other children take her initiative as leadership and join to pull him further into the village. Snickers sound out from behind him, and when Therion glances over his shoulders, he sees the two women grin at him and shake their heads. Even Linde seems to laugh at him, ears swiveling and tail thumping.

At a loss, the thief succumbs to his fate, though he follows after them with his own two feet to avoid stretching out his mantle any more. He learns that none of them are siblings, that they play together when their parents leave for a hunt. He also learns that he won’t be escaping them anytime soon.

“The weapon man lives here!” the girl tells him. “Come on, you’re so slow!”

Therion stares helplessly at the children before him. Words elude him. In place of his usual indifference, he finds himself unsure of how to behave, what to say, how to treat tiny human beings that barely reach his hips. The beginning of a headache threatens to break out again amidst his discomfort, and he’s begrudgingly left to the mercy of the Gods above to answer his prayers.

“And here is the—”

“Huntress H’aanit!”

The screech makes them all look up sharply; rather, it’s so loud that even those inside their homes gather to the windows to peer out. Therion turns right as a small form barrels into him. Linde, already on all fours, scans the perimeter.

“Huntress H’aanit!” the child, a girl, shouts, but after looking at his face more clearly, backs away in confusion. “Thou art not—but, Linde—?”

“Child!” An older woman emerges from a house, hurrying over. Therion recognizes her as the woman who’d given him the apple. “What hastens thee so? Catch thy breath and speakest clear!”

The girl, nodding, takes several deep breaths. Still, her voice comes out hurried and indecipherable to his untrained ear. He catches _H’aanit_ and _hurry_ and _message,_ but not much else.

The elderly woman places a soothing hand on the girl’s shoulder and nods. “I understande thee. You, young traveler—” Her eyes meet his and he blinks in confusion. “Couldst thou guidest this child to H’aanit? It appeareth most urgent.”

“I, uh,” Therion stammers out, blindsided. “I’m not sure—”

Linde, sensing his need of her, butts her head against his leg and takes off. When he doesn’t immediately follow, she growls at him. _Follow,_ she seems to say.

He fights the urge to press his face into his palms. Peace and quiet? No, _never._

“C’mon,” he tells the girl, half-jogging after the snow leopard. “The cat’ll take us there.”

They find the group, as Alfyn had promised, near the center of the village. H’aanit stands by a home-made archery range and corrects the posture of a boy as Primrose looks on and Alfyn stuffs different plants into his satchel. The apothecary sees him first. “Therion!” he greets, waving. But the smile slips from his face to be overrun by bewilderment. “Who’s that you got there?”

Therion passes him by, directing the girl to the huntress. “H’aanit,” he calls out—it feels strange saying her name for the first time. “Message for you.”

The huntress steps away from the young hunter she’d been training and approaches them. “Yes?”

“Huntress H’aanit!” The young girl fiddles with her fingers, chest heaving as she catches her breath. “The headman sent me to find thee!”

Alfyn and Primrose exchange looks as the huntress frowns, Linde trotting to her side. “Was it long ago?”

“He said he must speaketh with thee right away! A hunt!”

Nodding, H’aanit straps her bow more securely onto her shoulder. “Then I will make haste. He is at home, I take it?” When the girl shakes her head up and down, she places a comforting hand onto her shoulder, kneeling to her level and offering just the ghost of a smile on her lips. Her expression maintains its seriousness, however, and she turns to the other travelers. “Mine apologies, friends. It seemeth urgent.”

“Hey, why don’t we come with you?” Alfyn offers. Trust the apothecary to stick his nose in. “It sounds like an emergency.”

Several emotions cross H’aanit’s face at once as she mulls over his words. “I wolde not wanten to impose upon thee…”

Primrose steps forward and lays her hand against the crook of the huntress’ elbow, smiling up at her. “Think nothing of it, H’aanit,” she assures. “We are here to help.” And with a grateful bow of her head, the taller woman relents.

So they depart for the western edge of the town, where the huntress claims the headman lives. The young girl follows them through the village, her small legs scrambling to keep up with their long strides. As they walk, Alfyn turns to him, voice barely above a hush. “I understand if you’d rather head back to H’aanit’s,” he says. “Prim an’ I can go on ahead with H’aanit to check out the problem.”

A tempting offer. He considers it for a moment but shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll stick around.”

The apothecary’s eyebrows shoot up and he blinks as if taken by surprise. Rather giddily, he nods and grins. Therion, feeling small beneath Alfyn’s overwhelming excitement, mumbles under his breath and turns his attention back forward, focusing on the path ahead. He unwittingly locks gazes with Primrose, who gives him a self-satisfied smirk he doesn’t return. Instead, he glowers.

They hear the commotion before they see it; children shrieking, adults murmuring, a man yelling orders in the eye of it all. The children he’d met earlier catch sight of them and shout in their shrilly voices, fingers pointing, “Huntress H’aanit!”

Their small bodies swarm around her feet, and it’s a wonder how the huntress doesn’t trip over them once. They grab her tunic and pull her forward, “Hurry, hurry!” on their lips, spoken like a mantra.

“Children,” H’aanit chides, gently detaching herself from their holds. She looks up and gives a slight inclination of her head towards an older man, beard gray and reaching halfway down his chest. “Headman. Ye wished to seen me? Is there—”

Rust. Even through his scarf, Therion smells the metallic stench in the air. He grits his teeth, pressing the fabric more tightly against his nose to filter out the smell. Blood—and plenty of it, slathered across the ground. His eyes follow the crimson trail to the center of the crowd, where two men sit not far from where the headman stands. One man lies down on his side, motionless, and the other, a young blonde man in a tattered vest, kneels, catching his breath. Beside the unconscious man, two hunters make haste in prying the blood-soaked clothes off him, likely to identify the wound.

At Therion’s side, Alfyn lets out a harsh breath, hissing, “Gods.” He pulls his satchel from his shoulder and rushes to the men. “Sorry—let me have a look. I’m an apothecary.” He peels fabric away from the fallen man’s skin to reveal a gaping tear in the man’s abdomen, dark blood spilling to fill in the crater of flesh like a bowl. Swearing, Alfyn crawls to where the man’s head rests on the ground, prying his mouth open with bloodied fingers to hover above him with his ear. A pause—he listens. Then he shakes his head and mouths _gone._

“H’aanit.” The headman steps forward to guide her to the mess.

The huntress gazes at the gore only for a moment before shaking herself into action. “Headman. Tis the doing of a beast?”

“Aye. A request hath comen in from the demesne of Lord Ciaran. It would seem a beast hath strayed into his provincial forest.”

“Huntress,” calls the injured man from the ground, still kneeling as he clutches his shoulder wound. Alfyn whispers for him to release his shoulder so he can examine it, and a moment later rifles through his bag for supplies. The injured man doesn’t take his eyes off H’aanit. “Are you the best hunter of this village?”

The headman nods for her. “With Master Z’aanta off on the hunt, H’aanit is our best hunter.”

The man closes his eyes, accepting the answer. “I come directly from a group of Lord Ciaran’s personal guard, deployed far west into the Whisperwood. I bear a message—and a plea—from the Lord himself. Our troops—”

He coughs, pressure building in his chest, and slumps back into Alfyn’s hands. The apothecary keeps him upright, urging, “It’s alright, buddy, you’re in good hands now.”

Therion glances to Primrose, who stands just as frozen as he. With nothing to do—and not _knowing_ what to do, they hover in the inner ring of the crowd, keeping out of the way. H’aanit drops onto a knee before the messenger, waiting for him to gather his bearings. He shakes his head, trying to push himself forward.

“My apologies for the—urgency—of the matter.” When he speaks, his voice hitches, likely in pain, as Alfyn begins to clean and stitch up his wound. “But monsters pay little heed to the convenience of men.”

“I am here to serve. Tellen me more about this beast.”

He pales. “It is fearsome. It has wandered into the Whisperwood from the Gods know where, killing our livestock, driving travelers from the road.”

The huntress hums, a low sound in her throat. “A monster that hath strayed from its home…”

“Aye. Just this morning, a merchant and an injured companion fetched up at our manor in a frightful shape. A sorry lot, the only survivors of their caravan.”

Rising to her feet, H’aanit whistles for Linde to join her at her side. The snow leopard slithers between the crowd, lithe body appearing and disappearing from view as she weaves between legs. Then, regrouping with H’aanit, she sits like a guard dog.

Pulling her bow from her back, the huntress begins to inspect her weapon, drawing her fingertips across the bowstring for any flayed fibers. She nods to the man again. “How dost thou knowen this creature was responsible?”

Finished with sealing the wound, Alfyn rises, wiping his hands against his trousers. The messenger, relieved but still shaken, continues to speak from where he sits. “Lord Ciaran’s scholars were sent to investigate the matter. They call the beast a ghisarma. My Lord has sent a company of his own men to slay the beast—the company I not long ago was with—but when I diverged paths from them, I fear…”

“Thanke thee, sir. I hath learned enough. I departe for the hunt now.”

She slings her bone-carved bow back into its place over her shoulder, careful not to jostle her quiver of arrows. Making a clucking sound against the roof of her mouth, she signals for Linde to follow her. The large feline perks up and trots forward.

“H’aanit,” Primrose says, breaking her silence. The huntress pauses mid-step, confused. “Don’t think you’re going alone.”

Opening her mouth to protest, H’aanit shakes her head, “The path ahead is fraught with danger. In no good faith wolde I asken this of thee.”

Before Primrose can say anything further, Alfyn interjects, “Now, don’t be like that H’aanit! You saved our skin earlier, it’s only right we do our best to help you out, too!”

He’s right. Internally, Therion resigns himself to follow them, though his agreement is far less vocal. He has a debt to repay, and the quicker he unloads it off his shoulders, the better.

H’aanit’s mouth opens and closes several times as she struggles to respond. Finally, she gives a shaky laugh, the faintest trace of a smile breaking through. “I thanke thee, truly.” She says to the messenger and all those present to hear, “I taken my leave now.”

“May the spirits blessen thy hunt!” comes a chorus of shouts from the villagers. Lifted by their encouragement, she raises a fist and turns to the path leading into the dark Whisperwood. The dancer, apothecary, and thief follow not far behind.

“H’aanit,” calls out the headman, stopping them in their tracks. When the woman looks at him, he continues, “Prithee doe naught Master Z’aanta would thee not.”

She nods, and they set off.

 

The stench of blood lingers in their path. Here, the darkness feels more sinister, more expansive and ensnaring. More than once, Alfyn places a large hand on his shoulder, halting him in his steps to warn him of the poisonous ferns beneath his feet.

“Don’t worry,” the apothecary tells him. Their usual party banter is silenced in favor of quiet concentration, so his voice sounds booming against Therion’s ears. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

The thief hesitates but bites out “Thanks” anyway.

H’aanit guides the way as any experienced hunter does: discreetly. She is one with the woods around her, each step placed so there’s no sign of her even being there. With Linde at her side, her keen eyes are doubled in strength, the snow leopard chuffing to her whenever she catches wind of a new scent.

The rest of them can’t boast of the same grace. Even Primrose, known for her controlled movements, trips over roots and logs. Alfyn nearly faceplants into the very ferns he’d warned Therion about, saved only when the thief lurches forward to catch him by the collar of his shirt.

The apothecary’s grin is wry and embarrassed. “Thanks, Therion,” he says, and Therion knows his gratitude is genuine in the way he becomes more vigilant about his surroundings.

Ahead, Linde stops. He notices the way her body crouches toward the ground, not in a pouncing position, but to stay within the cover of the grass and bushes. Her body stills—and if he hadn’t already been looking at her, he’s sure he would’ve never seen her in the dark.

“Hold,” H’aanit whispers back to them. “Letten me searche ahead afore thou proceedest.”

The huntress draws her bow and takes small steps forward. The smell of blood permeates the area, concentrated and stronger than anywhere else they’d passed. Following a few feet behind Linde, H’aanit pauses for a heartbeat then straightens up. Something lies ahead. She glances over to them. “Thou may comest.”

A part of him already expects it when he sees it. Limbs splayed about—some attached to bodies, some _thrown_ atop of bodies, of which they likely do not belong—scattered across the path like diner scraps into an alleyway. Red-smeared steel glints in the waning light, the dying embers of the sun growing dimmer and dimmer the farther in they reach. Swords. Chainmail. Helmets. None of them actually attached to their owners.

He looks out as far as his eyes will allow him. Fur. Four-legged animals—wolves? The musky scent of dirt and death fills his nostrils. Not just humans, but wolf bodies fill the area, milky, gray eyes wide open in false-like life, tongues lolling out of their sharp-toothed jaws.

Primrose cups a palm over her mouth as she grimaces. The heady smell of blood makes Therion feel like he has a nosebleed, and he turns away as well. Alfyn keeps his eyes forward, but he can see the way the apothecary’s hands clench into fists, the way he trembles ever so slightly. He doesn’t even move to check the bodies. It’s clear there are no survivors.

H’aanit is the first to speak. She sounds glum, but her voice doesn’t shake. “It sleweth these men and beasts for no reason other than as a fearsome show of its dreadful power.”

“Is that not normal in beasts?” Primrose asks.

“Nay. Animals art different from man. They taken only what they must.”

A twig snaps. Shapes move in the shadows. Heart thrumming in his chest and ears, Therion’s hand flies to his dagger, unsheathing it beneath his mantle. The shapes move again and this time one, two snouts dip into view, noses twitching as they sniff. They move into the light to unveil themselves.

H’aanit outstretches a hand towards them, palm up in a beckoning sort of way. The wolves flinch back, ears flat against their heads. The huntress doesn’t say anything out loud. Instead, her gaze remains locked onto the animals’ wary eyes, and their ears twitch every so often as if she is speaking to them.

After what feels like an eternity, one wolf steps forward and the other trails after it. They press their snouts into her hands and inhale deeply.

“Patience. I shall returne and attende to the fallen,” H’aanit tells them. They close their eyes and sit. “Wilt thou protect them, friends, until my return?”

Bowing their heads, the wolves give a low whine. They remain where they are, rooted.

Satisfied, H’aanit moves past them to into the darkness of the shadows. She motions for them to follow her and again they trek deeper into the forest. As they walk, Therion can only focus on the sounds of their feet as they progress, a slushing thump each time they move. His sight makes it a little harder to follow their trail. It doesn’t help that the mist grows thick like a cloud with each step, obscuring their legs.

“Therion,” whispers Primrose.

He jerks in surprise as her cool hands latch onto his wrist, yanking him to the side. Where his foot would have fallen lies a small snake beneath a rock. He stares dumbly at it then shakes his head. “Thanks.”

H’aanit holds up a hand, stopping them. “It is near,” she says, listening. “Tis as if it is…”

In the distance, something low and loud hisses into the air. In. Out. _It’s breathing,_ Therion realizes. Or—wheezing.

Sleeping?

_No._

Lurking.

None of them move, frozen in their tracks. Even Linde crouches lower to the ground, spine and tail rigid. H’aanit takes a deep breath before, motioning with her hand, she leads them forward.

The louder the hissing sound gets, the closer they come to the beast. A ghisarma, Therion thinks. He’s never heard of it before and can only imagine that the thing is large—perhaps even larger than the wild boar he’d encountered before.

He can’t ask H’aanit, though. Not when any sudden sound can reveal their presence.

They cross through a fork in the road, veering left. The path opens before them into a traveler-trodden road, away from the trees. Out in the open, he feels exposed.

At the bend in the road, H’aanit stops walking. Lumps of fur pile upon the ground in front of them, and Therion counts at least five dead wolves. The huntress draws her bow fully and pinches an arrow between her middle finger and thumb. “Be ready,” she commands.

He doesn’t have time to think. The flash of a movement swings at him from his right before a thick green tail slams into the ground in front of him, missing him by a foot. Alfyn grabs him by the shoulder and the four of them scatter, each backing up into different directions. _Bad,_ Therion thinks—if they’re too far apart, they’re easier to pick off one by one.

He draws his dagger and Alfyn does the same with his axe. Across the path, Primrose grips two daggers, back to back against H’aanit who wields her bow, already aiming. She fires an arrow into the darkness and a wretched screech fills their ears.

“Do not hide!” the huntress bellows to the beast. “Thou scarest me not, beast.”

Hissing, the ghisarma swings into view. Human-like hands, half-fur and half-skin, it is foul and ugly. From its fanged mouth spills a putrid liquid that sizzles when it touches the ground. Therion watches its eyes, swiveling in all directions, never looking in the same one. Most notable are their color—red.

H’aanit pulls her bowstring taut once more, aiming. “Thou wert driven from thine home. Bested by a beast more powerful, thou fledst and foundest thyself here.” It snarls at her and she winces, the acidic spittle in its mouth grazing her cheek. Primrose, too, shields her eyes from the assault. The huntress, undeterred, continues, voice laden with an emotion Therion can’t quite place. “I understande thy pain all too well.”

The beast arches its back, ready to pounce. Beside him, Alfyn shouts in warning, “H’aanit, it’s coming!”

Even as she fires her arrow, H’aanit speaks without losing her composure. “But to turnen thy grief and anger against innocent creatures… that is a sin of _men!”_   The arrow strikes the ghisarma in the shoulder, but not deep enough to do much damage. It succeeds in enraging it further.

Lashing out, it swipes at Therion, who dodges out of the way without trouble. In the motion, though, he separates from Alfyn. _Shit._

“Thou hast trespassed, beast. And in the name of the forest, I visite judgment upon thee!”

Infuriated, the beast roars and lurches forward. It swerves past Therion toward Alfyn, claws outstretched. Digging his heels into the dirt, the thief holds his ground, slashing outward at its sides to leave a long, gaping wound. But the animal doesn’t flinch—or seem to notice, for that matter.

_It… doesn’t feel this._

Its blood drips from the tip of his blade. When he lifts it up, the crimson liquid slides down its hilt and onto his fingers. He nearly drops his weapon; it _burns,_ burns like all the hells. “Its blood!” he hisses to the others, not sure how to explain, to—

Across from him, Primrose gives a yip of pain. In an effort to block the creature, she twists her knife into the ghisarma’s shoulder, pushing to drive the point deeper in. Blood seeps from the wound onto her skin. The dancer squeezes her eyes shut, gritting her teeth as a sizzling noise fills the air. Burning. “Don’t touch it!” she calls out, but doesn’t heed the advice herself.

“Primrose!” H’aanit yells, notching and releasing another arrow. This one pierces the beast in the mouth and it recoils angrily, no less tired. Pulling the dancer back, the huntress shoves her towards Alfyn. “Alfyn, seest to her wounds. I wilt cover thee.”

“What _is_ this thing?” Therion demands. Its tail swings at him again and he takes a deep breath, point end of his dagger poised, before driving it into the thick limb. The ghisarma releases another wail and scrambles away, taking his dagger with it. “Shit.” He shoots an alarmed look at H’aanit, who stares back for a moment before fixing her eyes on the creature once more.

“It… doth not behaveth like I knowe,” she says, at a loss. “This beast… tis no longer a beast. Tis senseless.” She pauses and recognition flashes in her expression. “Red eyes?”

Again, the ghisarma dives for Therion. Without his weapon, he is defenseless. He swears and twists out of the way, willing his flame to his control. He shrouds himself in the fire, retreating.

Alfyn, kneeling by Primrose, stands to guard her from the beast. Linde stands at their side, jowls pulled back into a snarl. But when Therion thinks it will target them, sensing their vulnerability, he finds his expectations unmet. The beast goes for H’aanit instead, who meets it with a final arrow notched for the kill—its throat.

“A life for a life,” she hisses. And releases.

At first, he thinks she misses. The ghisarma barrels on, neither slowing down nor giving any indication of stopping. But he hears a gurgling sound then sees a cloud of steam rise from where the wound drips to the ground, burning it. The beast veers and sways, unable to control its movements any longer. And then it falls to the earth, silent.

“Fuck.” Therion staggers back, falling onto his ass. He tears his scarf from his face, panting heavily. “What the _fuck_ was that.”

“I…” H’aanit swallows. “I feare I doe not know either.”

She steps toward the body, careful not to touch its bodily fluids. Rising to join her, Alfyn guides an injured Primrose, arm swaying at her side, to stand before the fallen beast. Only Therion remains where he is for a few minutes, moving only to pull his dagger free from the ghisarma’s tail. He stabs the blade into the dirt to clean it of blood.

“Tis not normal for ghisarma to haveth red eyes,” explains the huntress. “Nor attack so recklessly.”

Primrose narrows her eyes. “A disease?”

“Mayhaps.” Then H’aanit notices the dancer’s arm and rushes to her. “Thy wound—”

The flesh isn’t welted like normal burn injuries are. From her knuckles to her wrist, Primrose’s skin is ashen, singed. She forces her grimace into a smile. “It isn’t so bad.”

“Nope, don’t even lie to me, Prim,” argues Alfyn. “H’aanit, we need to head back to the village so I can properly look at that hand. From what I saw, none of that black stuff is actually burned skin, but a layer of ash. Still need to see it, though.”

H’aanit nods several times, whistling for Linde. “Letten us make haste,” she says, and they begin the trudge back in the direction they came from. Therion finds that the way back is much shorter than the way there. Under the cover of his mantle, he flexes his good hand, wriggling his fingers. The action stings, but he's relieved to have feeling in them at all. Relieved to somehow have scraped through the encounter with just a burn on his hand.

 

In the darkness of H’aanit’s home, he finally feels his heart rate return to normal. Therion sits at her table while Alfyn fusses over Primrose by the bed. “This might sting a little,” the apothecary warns, and if Primrose’s following hiss is any indication, it actually stings a _lot._

H’aanit herself had left them to take care of business. Burying the dead, he thinks, or reporting to the headman. On their way back to her house, she’d asked if she could join them on the road, headed on her own quest to find some master, and unsurprisingly, the others had agreed. And so their three becomes four—five, counting the cat.

“Alright, catch some z’s,” he hears Alfyn say. Then a shadow looms over his shoulder and the squeal of wood against wood sounds out as Alfyn takes the seat across from him. “Hey, Therion,” he murmurs. He sounds so _tired._

Therion grunts in greeting. His eyes feel weary, so he props his chin against his hand.

“Whoa there.” The chair scrapes against the floor again and Alfyn stands above him. “Let me see your hand.”

“Why?”

The apothecary gives him an exasperated look that screams _really?_ And Therion almost laughs. “What do you mean, why? You’re injured, Therion. Lemme have a look at that.” He moves to the thief’s other side and gingerly prods at the wound, watching each time Therion winces. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Primrose’s looked worse.”

“That isn’t an excuse, and you know it.” Pulling a bottle out of his bag, he pulls out the cork with his teeth. “I’m not even gonna warn you.”

The paste—whatever it is—stings like hell. But Therion is just so tired, that it all seems a bit funny to him. He disregards the pain for weak laughter, a chuckle that rumbles through his chest. Because _of course_ Alfyn, generous Alfyn, would say something like “I’m not going to warn you” and warn him in the same breath. Beside him, Alfyn freezes in his actions and gapes at him as if he’s grown another head.

The laugh dies in Therion’s throat and he narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Just—you laughed.”

Heat blossoms from Therion’s neck and rises to the tip of his nose, but with Alfyn holding his hand hostage, he can’t move to hide his face. Instead, he averts his eyes, looking anywhere but directly at the apothecary. His bones are weary and his eyes are heavy. It truly says something is wrong when, out of all the shit that’s happened today, sitting here with the other man is the most comforting thing to him. Familiar.

Alfyn leaves him be and continues to apply the paste onto his burned skin. Then, he reaches for his bangled hand and Therion flinches.

“What’re you doing?”

The apothecary blinks slowly then tilts his head. “Checking you for wounds, since you apparently can’t be trusted to report them yourself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this hand,” Therion argues. He starts to pull back.

Alfyn frowns but relents. “Alright.”

They sit in an awkward silence, the candlelight at the end of the table flickering and twisting their shadows. Therion continues to avoid his eyes, but his thoughts begin to wander again. _A life for a life,_ H’aanit had said.

He glances up, right into Alfyn’s eyes. The man had never stopped staring at him.

Flustered, he looks down again. “I heard from Primrose. About what you did.”

Confusion rings in Alfyn's voice. “What?”

“The night I…” He shakes his head. “The poison.”

“Oh.”

“What do you want from me?” This he asks with his eyes raised once more, locked onto warm brown ones. Challenging. “What do you want in return?”

Alfyn, even more puzzled than before, furrows his brows. “I don’t want anything in return, Therion. I helped you out that night because you were in trouble, and I was there.”

“You’re lying.” Therion scowls, eyes falling to the bangle around his wrist. “ _Nobody_ expects nothing—”

“I don’t, Therion. Honest to Gods, I don’t.” The pleading tone in Alfyn’s voice forces him to look back up, right into those eyes of _not pity_ , and Therion, for whatever reason, believes him.

He doesn’t back down, though. A debt is a debt. “Name one thing.”

“Therion—”

“Whatever you want. One thing.”

Alfyn sits across from him, so utterly at a loss that it would be a comical sight in another situation. He chews on his lip and his hands are constantly in motion, fiddling with his sleeve, scratching the back of his head. Therion discovers that the way Alfyn thinks is shown clearly on the man’s face—morphing with each thought, contorting with each dilemma.

“One thing?” the apothecary asks at last, his voice small and uncertain.

The thief nods.

“Then… if we could just talk every so often.” He laughs, spurred on, “Kind of like this! But about other things, like our days, or stories, or people we’ve met.”

Now, Therion gapes at him as if _he’s_ grown another head. “You do that already.”

Alfyn flushes, giving a jittery laugh. “Well, no, I just mean—maybe you could talk _back_ sometimes? Or we could just hang out?”

He has him there. Therion rummages through his mind, considering the request. It doesn’t really hurt him in any way. Alfyn could’ve asked for other things—for all the riches in the world (however unlikely that is, coming from _him)_ —that would have been much harder to fulfill. But this, _this_ is doable.

“Teach me. How to read, and write, and all that shit. Is that good enough for you?”

He realizes it’s more of a selfish request, that in the end, Alfyn doesn’t really get anything out of this situation. But surprisingly, the other man’s face lights up brighter than a candle and he grins. “I’d love to.”

Behind them, a cough sounds out and Therion turns to see Primrose, sitting fully upright on the bed, chin propped on her knees. He feels embarrassment flutter in his blood again. He’d completely forgotten about her. She smirks at him, rolling her eyes. “Boys.”

Outside, the door jostles before swinging inward. H’aanit looms, tall figure half-shrouded in darkness, with Linde at her feet. She holds a bundle of different-colored furs in her arms, boots and shirts and mantles.

“H’aanit, what’s this?” Alfyn asks, getting up to meet her at the door.

“I hath spoken with the tanner about our journey,” she explains. “He hath agreed that we art unprepared for the harsh colds of the Frostlands.”

Tossing both Therion and Alfyn a full set of clothing, she stares the thief down.

“Thou shouldst rest while the night remains. It seemeth the path to Stillsnow is blockedst by a storm. Tis a long journey afore us to reach it.”

Primrose frowns, bewildered. “What road will we take?”

H’aanit steps to the bed to hand the dancer her own set of fur-lined clothes, much warmer than her current attire. The huntress smiles as Primrose holds the garbs up, stroking the fluffy hood. Her voice sounds fond as she continues, “I feare tis the long way around—through the church city of Flamesgrace."

 _Ah._ Therion considers the candle at the end of the table, its flame bending. He frowns into its light. Some say Flamesgrace is the home of the Fool's Bangle, where it gained its notoriety. The weight on his hand feels heavy.

Flamesgrace. The city of the Gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >"canon compliant"< yeeeah, I'm just gonna tweak this a *bit*
> 
> I never realized how much I like H'aanit's chapter 1! The Woodlands are so interesting and the way she communicates with animals even more so. My only wish is that we could've had Linde following H'aanit's overworld sprite because I just love that little *thump thump* her tail does in her idle animation.
> 
> As always, thank you all for reading. Both the comments on here and the messages on tumblr are so heartwarming! I can't thank you guys enough!! (find me @chillshroom on tumblr!)


	8. Of Rune and Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of a time many, many years before.

Gods did not keep war at bay.

Foolish humans, thought Balogar. They invoked the names of the Gods in their self-proclaimed justice. Death across the lands in the name of Aelfric—for it was Aelfric who lorded over the masses with his sacred flame, a guiding light, even if he claimed not to. The people loved to love him.

And so war would come, Steorra foretold. Again.

“And what brings it this time?” asked Dreisang. His presence seemed to loom above them from his seat at the council table, posture straight and imposing. As always, he gripped his staff tightly in one hand. The old man was stern as ever.

Beside him, Winnehild stared down at the map spread across the table, eyeing the movement across the lands. She neither smiled nor frowned, merely rapping her fingers against the council table. Quiet. But Balogar knew the war maiden well, and even better how indecisive she was. No matter the cause, war was war, and the humans needed _her_ favor for victory. Not that of Aelfric, despite their claim to fight in his honor.

“They purge the godless. The heretics,” she answered. She crossed her arms. “A war against a people, not a nation. How odd.”

“This is nothing new.” They all turned to the form at the end of the table. Galdera sat, silver robes practically swallowing his lanky form as he leaned forward. His dark hair pooled around his shoulders, and by mortal definition, he looked kingly. “No matter how much time may pass, they will seek out the same things. It has always been life, death, destruction, again and again.”

“So this is why you’ve called us together again,” Balogar drawled, slouching even further in his seat. “Are we going on with the plan, then?”

“Resetting the world is no easy task, Bal,” came Steorra’s chiding voice. The blind woman bore heavy bags beneath her eyes, her face paler than usual. “We must have the others’ agreement before we do anything of the sort.” She turned back to Galdera. “I must admit, I have my own reservations… but the stars see nothing but darkness on our current path.”

“We will start anew,” said Galdera. “But we will need the others to come to their senses. A new world, a better world—one where nothing dies.”

Dreisang moved his staff before him, clasping each worn hand over its handle. “Aelfric will not stand for it. He loves the mortals far too much. _His_ humans, he says.”

Galdera shook his head. “If we merely convince the majority, then his decision will not matter. There is another mortal-lover we may be able to sway, however.” He turned to Balogar. “Have you spoken to the thief?”

“The _Prince_ of Thieves,” the runelord corrected, but could not keep the humored laugh from his voice. “Or so he claims. The Godling has refused so far.”

“Change his mind. If we can bring Aeber onto our side, then the others may follow suit. A mortal-born boy raised into godhood… if he turns his back on his previous kin, then even they will see that this is the best way.”

The words did not sit well with Balogar, but he ignored the undertone of exasperation and impatience in Galdera’s voice. “I make no promises,” he told the god, but pushed himself from his seat anyway. He left the council room without another word, and they let him go in silence.

 

Why Aeber had chosen to dwell in the dry, rocky terrain of the Cliftlands was beyond him. Balogar supposed it made sense, since these lands were where the thief was born. He remembered it not long ago—Steorra noting, with growing alarm, a new myth spoken into existence: of a hero stealing from the rich, giving to the poor, exacting justice on those he deemed worthy of his blade. The whispers surrounded a young man from the Cliftlands who rallied against the lords of his land. The marginalized revered him, prayed to him.

Standing before the thief’s den, he peered into the darkness. The cave was not as deep as most caverns were, but it was not shallow, either. He debated between waiting for the legendary thief to come to him or puzzling through the winding paths inside. Either way, it would take some time.

“Intimidated, Balogar?” came a voice behind him.

So he’d graced him with his presence after all.

“Aeber,” greeted Balogar, turning, but the other god was nowhere in sight. He heard a laugh, a rustle, and looking up, found the thief perched on a ledge, legs dangling off the edge.

“You’ve been standing there for a while,” Aeber said, pushing forward to leap off the ledge. His brown hair, gathered into a short, sloppy ponytail, looked windswept. The thief donned his usual garb—a green cloak, clasped at the shoulder, a tan shirt, and brown trousers—nothing distinguishable from the common peasant. His daggers made all the difference though; golds, rubies, emeralds—their hilts bordered on the gaudy.

“Galdera sent me,” said the runelord, belatedly.

Aeber’s smirk slipped from his face. “Business already, huh? Alright, let me hear it.” He stepped into the dark shroud of the cave, form nearly disappearing completely from sight. Balogar trailed after him, the resounding thuds of their footsteps on the cavern walls sounding like a beat in his ears. Before he could open his mouth to speak, the thief interrupted him. “I’ll make it simple for you: no.”

“I gathered as much,” Balogar grumbled, but continued after him anyway. “The humans are warring again.”

“The ‘humans,’ hm. It’s still odd to see myself as anything _other_ than human these days.” The thief snapped his fingers and a flame spurned between his fingertips. He held his arm high, igniting a torch at his side with each step until the path before Balogar was illuminated entirely. Turning slightly, Aeber leveled his steely gaze onto him, the sparks of orange flame giving them a bright glow. “You bring me old news, Oh Mighty God.” Then he sighed. “But I know what you’re talking about. That Church—what was it they called it? Sacred Flame?—is up to no good.”

“So you’ve heard.”

“More than heard.” Aeber came to a stop before a humble pile of belongings—pots, pans, blankets, and the occasional trinket. Far from what anyone would expect from the Prince of Thieves himself. The only objects of notable value were the necklaces and bracelets he hoarded in a single chest in the room. “Aelfric’s been going on and on about them, abusing his name and the like. He’s been apologizing more lately, too.”

This was the first Balogar heard of it. “For what?”

The thief’s coldness dipped into the bite of his voice. “Who do you think the ‘godless’ they speak of are, Balogar?”

People who had their faith in the Gods torn asunder—from the lowest rungs of society, the starving children, the cornered thieves. Those who no longer believed, or those who believed _differently._

 _Ah._ Balogar schooled his expression into one of understanding. “As I understand it, in a new world, there would be no more suffering.” He recalled Galdera’s own words to him as he’d explained it. “No more war—or death, for that matter. A perfect world. Your people would no longer suffer.”

They stared at each other until Aeber’s lips quivered and he barked out a laugh. “It’s like you want me dead, Balogar,” he joked, but the light in his eyes took on a stormy, clouded look, betraying his thoughts within. “Ironic as it is, the only reason I exist is because those people pray to me. Otherwise I’d have been dead decades ago when you found me in that ditch.” His humorous mood vanished, replaced with a sobering quiet. He stepped towards his haphazard cluster of belongings and took a seat beside a whiskey barrel he’d likely pilfered from someone out of spite. “A world without suffering.” The thief sat, chin against his hand as he propped his elbows against the barrel. He remained silent for a few seconds before he sighed and met Balogar’s stare head-on. “I’ll think on it.”

It was a change. The thief seemed to be seriously considering his offer. Balogar almost did not believe it—how many times had he been here, sent to convince the young God only to return unsuccessful? But the moment was done, the decision nearly sealed. He felt the beginnings of victory swell within him; Aeber would come to them soon enough, he was sure.

But the runelord did not show his satisfaction in the slightest. He merely nodded to the thief, who grew bored with him, and turned to depart.

“You’re a strange, persistent one, Balogar,” he heard murmured to his back as he left.

He continued on undeterred. Galdera would appreciate the news—soon enough, the others would come to understand their reasons. For Gods did not keep war at bay. But they might erase it altogether. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short interim chapter before we get into the Frostlands! Gods, gods, gods.... I love them. These mini chapters will come up whenever I meet the 8th chapter mark because, hey, octopath? Eight? And also because it brings up things that we'll get into later in the Frostlands.
> 
> You might have noticed already, but updates for the next few weeks will be a bit sporadic because.... I'm graduating! Please bear with me while I try to meet deadlines.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! You can find me @chillshroom on tumblr or @nyoomiq on twitter


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